Born of Hope
by Sierra Leone
Summary: Aragorn loves and marries another before Arwen, but she dies during the birth of their child. Short years later the Dunedain are attacked, Aragorn and his child are separated. Grief-sticken, Aragorn sets out to find her. She who is Born of Hope. AU/OC.
1. Prologue: The Safe Road Home

Aragorn loves and marries another before Arwen, an elleth named Lillianeth, daughter of the last Noldorian king, Gil-gilad. However, their life together is cut short when Lillianeth dies during the birth of their child, a daughter named Aralynn. Short years later the Dunedain are attacked and Aragorn is separated from his child. Grief-stricken, Aragorn sets out to find his daughter, she who is Born of Hope. AU/OC.

*This story is the beginning of an arc revolving around Aragorn and his daughter that will show how her existence will alter the fate of Middle-earth, not to mention how she will change her father. Later instalments will follow the events of Tolkien's trilogy in an alternate universe sort of way, of course. :P Hope you'll stay along for the ride! ~Sierra*

Disclaimer: I do not nor have I ever owned Tolkien's worlds, works, or characters. I'm just playing in his sand box. Props to the master.

**Prologue**

Forbidding clouds hid the sun, bringing darkness before its time. By mid-afternoon the lamps of Bree had been lit and sat flickering beneath rounded panes, little dots of dancing light flanked by the western edge of the South Downs.

Once a meeting place of ancient roads, the present village was naught but a smattering of stone houses and hobbit holes above the old highway. Aragorn had always found its inhabitants amiable enough, although they spared little love for him and his kin. Bree-folk were tiresomely inquisitive, but cautious, and they cared little for the wandering men they called rangers. He and those with him had arrived only the night before, but Aragorn was certain that by now all of Bree-land had heard of their coming. Less than a score all told, but more than enough wanderers to set the tiny township on edge. The Dunedain were not welcome here.

Aragorn leaned against the southern wall of a small stable, toeing a tuft of the desiccated swath as he tried vainly to hide from the wind funnelling through the plains between Emyn Uial and the Weather Hills. A dark hood hung low over his face, shadowing grim features, yet not so low he couldn't watch those who passed. He pulled his cloak tighter against his chest, its edges pinned beneath his forearms, safe from the prying fingers of the wind. A hobbit passed, eying the sword belted at Aragorn's waist and quickening his stout pace until he'd passed the bend in the road. Aragorn sighed.

It had been a long time since a stranger last looked at him with anything but fear or disdain. His clothes were dark, worn and spattered with mud, a soldier's garb, well-fit but ill-mended. He wondered if people could see the finely-woven elven tunic with sterling stitching beneath his long water-stained coat, would they think better of him for it.

Aragorn heard his name over the wind and turned toward the call. Halbarad's broad frame filled the doorway of a cottage that sat nestled in the crook of the hills, motioning for Aragorn to come. With a final glance at the murky skies, Aragorn drew up the collar of his cloak and strode for shelter.

Her pains had begun three nights ago. By first light they'd crossed at Tharbad, keeping to the North Road, known among Bree-folk as the Greenway. She'd ridden nestled against him, close enough he'd felt the tightening of her stomach when each contraction came. He'd pressed his lips to her ear, whispering in Sindarin as she squeezed his hand, forcing the blood from his fingers. Riding double had cost them time, but they'd reached the village proper just as the gates were closing at the end of the second day.

Aragorn had never been so glad to see the mossy gates of Bree split the hedge beyond the dike. He'd intended to see his wife to Rivendell before the first winter snows, but the snows had come early. A fierce arctic squall had blown down from the north coast, pinning the rangers down at Lond Daer, leaving them unable to make the journey north until the winds and the snows had subsided.

That the child was three weeks early had only left Aragorn more unprepared for its arrival. Firstborns tended to be late rather than early, although he supposed it was fitting that this particular firstborn would differ, considering his own obstinacy. It should only serve that his child had inherited it. Lillianeth had always been the patient one, the strong one, the wise, the compassionate one. _Was. Not had been. Was_, he amended as his eyes filled with tears.

He tried to smile, conjuring memories of the days when he'd stood, scrawny arms crossed over his chest as he stomped his small foot and glared at the venerable Elrond Peredhil who had been father, teacher, and comforter to him for the first years of his life. His rebellions in the Last Homely House had been an amusement to his ageless caregivers and Elrond's soothing healer's temperament could quickly squelch little Estel's unruliness. It was only as Aragorn grew older, more restless and more headstrong that he was made privy to the steely temper that glinted beneath the half-elf's self-possessed countenance.

Yet thoughts of his foster father brought grief too, for it was not just the snows that had made Aragorn delay his journey northward. Part of Aragorn`s hesitancy had stemmed from his disagreement with Elrond when last they'd met. Not that his foster father's anger was undeserved. Aragorn had wed Lillianeth, sole child of the last Noldorian high king, Gil-gilad.

Elrond had opposed the marriage: he maintained that for a mortal king yet to be crowned to marry one of high blood was unwise, even if such a union would renew the diminished line of Numenorean kings and return the lords of Gondor to their former might and wisdom. Aragorn knew it had not been lack of love for men that made Elrond refuse. Elrond's love for Lillianeth simply exceeded his love of men and magnified his reluctance to surrender the sole child of his friend and king to a mortal fate, although she herself was willing.

Lillianeth had made every effort to persuade Elrond that her marriage to Aragorn and a mortal life was what her heart desired, yet in this matter, as in few others, Elrond had been immovable. Tempers had flared and Lillianeth was brought to tears, her fondness for her father's herald surpassing any bonds of blood or duty.

At the sight of Lillianeth's tears Elrond had left the house, but Aragorn had followed close on his heels, his cutting words carving through the stillness of Elrond's gardens. They'd fought bitterly, both ignoring Glorfindel's attempts to subdue their quarrel. Aragorn had never seen Elrond as hurt or as angry as he been that day. When Aragorn had stalked away fighting tears, Glorfindel had lingered and Aragorn wished he'd not heard Elrond's last words.

_Wait, please. Aragorn I-I love you…my son. _

Pride alone had pushed Aragorn through the vine-draped arches and kept him from looking back at the one he'd loved and revered since childhood. Still, though Aragorn knew his foster father would welcome him and his wife into his home with joy and great love, he felt as if some curtain had been drawn between them. He told himself it was the snows that had made him delay his departure, but Aragorn knew it was his shame and his pride. He'd put off leaving longer than he should have. He'd waited until the last possible moment and now his wife lay dying, in a small town of meddlesome mortals, far beyond even Elrond's reach.

Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut, wishing with all his might to open them and find himself standing at the door to his father's house, to see the lights burning, to hear the warm welcome of the door wardens and to feel the strength of his brothers' embrace. If he'd not been so proud, so selfish, they would now be safe, protected by the mighty spires of Rivendell's mountains. This was his fault. Halbarad had been pushing him to leave for over a month. Lillianeth had been packed to leave two weeks after the Dunedain settled in Lond Daer. Even he himself had been dreaming of passing a winter of ease among the elves since the first frosts. Still he'd delayed.

He stopped mid-stride, hunched against the pummelling wind and wept, face in hands as he prayed to the Valar, to Eru himself, that they might hear the cry of his soul and take pity on such a wretched and undeserving man as him.

_I do not pray to you as elves do, with faithfulness and reverence. Or at least I have not since I dwelt among them. _Aragorn stared up at the sky, trying to envision the stars he knew lay blanketed beneath the unyielding clouds. _But please, if you have not forgotten me, if I yet hold any of the grace you have gifted those who sheltered me from the shadows of this world, please. Please, don't take them from me. They are so precious to me. Please._

He grimaced, tugging his hood down over his face to fend off the pricking of the snow and started walking again, taking little comfort in a prayer to beings he barely believed were listening, let alone cared for the fate of his wife and unborn child. His bitterness surprised him, having shared the regard of the Noldor for those who dwelt in Aman during his years in Rivendell and even after. When had that changed he wondered, ducking as he entered the midwife's house and flinching when the door slammed shut behind him. He leaned against it, breathless.

"My lord?"

Aragorn lifted his head, nudging back his sleet-soaked hood as he met the elder man's gaze. Halbarad's dark eyes gleamed and teardrops hung, glinting like gems where they'd caught in his sterling beard. Aragorn looked away and stomped vigorously to rid his iced boots of their extra weight.

"This storm is worse than the one that picked up your tent in the middle of the night and strung it up in those trees under the Blue Mountains." Aragorn's laughter sounded forced, even to his own ears. "I'll never forget the expression on your face when you finally woke up, buried to your waist in snow. I could have sworn you were one of the fallen kings, waking after a thousand years of slumber." Aragorn walked to the far side of the room, sliding the rocking chair closer to the hearth as he sat and began prying the top of his boots away from his calves. Halbarad's mournful eyes followed him uncertainly. "I don't think I've laughed so hard before or since."

Halbarad grunted.

"You weren't laughing so hard when I took your tent and sent you up the tree after mine, were you."

Aragorn's lips twitched upwards reflexively but fell short of a smile as he set his boots in front of the fire. Outwardly there was nothing extraordinary about them. They were a dull dun color boot, worn and gouged, but the velvety rabbit-skin lining was tight as a drum. Even in this weather his feet were warm. They were of elven craft. A gift from Lillianeth and the twins two winters ago after he'd gotten a horrendous case of frost-bite trekking through the Misty Mountains after orcs. Tears flooded his eyes, but he blinked them back.

"Aragorn."

The weight of Halbarad's mammoth hand on his shoulder was of no comfort. He fixed his gaze on one of the cornerstones of the hearth, his eyes tracing its mottled surface. Halbarad's hand didn't move.

"Do you remember the first time I met you," Aragorn asked quietly, his voice barely rising above the crackling flames at his feet.

"That was more than fifty years ago."

Aragorn nodded, his eyes never leaving the small granite stone. He'd been fifteen, on an errand with his foster brothers Elladan and Elrohir, before he'd know of his ancestry. Halbarad had met them at the mouth of the Angle, grave irascible and sullen as only a Dunedan can be. His dark eyes had been sharp, his russet hair unkempt and wild, while the breadth of his shoulders had made him seem like a giant.

"I was terrified of you, half convinced you were going to run me through when Dan and Ro weren't looking."

He glanced at the man standing at his shoulder, his apprehension seeming foolish. Halbarad's russet hair was now mostly silver, his sharp eyes this night showed only sadness and as he returned Aragorn's gaze, Aragorn felt for the first time that the man was beginning to show his age. For even among the Dunedain, Halbarad was growing old.

"I wasn't nearly so frightening after spending three days at the bottom of that rut in Hollin was I." Halbarad smiled wistfully. "Eru, what a sight you were, all backed up under that ledge beneath the hill. You were so pale I thought you were dead until you blinked. Your face and arm were bloodied and bruised, your ankle broken, half a tree stuck in your hair. It took me nearly three hours to get you cleaned up enough to recognize you."

"If you didn't know who I was, why go to the trouble?"

"I just assumed it was you. What other mortal would be fool enough to get caught in a den of orcs but the kin of Lord Elrond? And I couldn't let Elrond see you in such shape. He'd have had my head."

Aragorn smiled wanly. Halbarad had sent his companions to Elladan and Elrohir with word that he had found Estel and would take him directly to Rivendell. Then he'd carried Aragorn north to Rivendell's borders, more than forty leagues, as though he were nothing, nursing his wounds with tenderness Aragorn would never have guessed him capable of. And while they walked, Halbarad talked, regaling young Estel with stories of the days when the Dunedain were mightier, when the sound of their chargers thundering across the plains of Eriador made shadows flee, when elves and men were still friends.

Aragorn, true to his adolescent petulance, had been moody for the first two days of their journey, very much resenting this old man who felt he was interested in the doings of a bunch of wandering strangers. Yet by the time they'd reached Rivendell Aragorn had not wanted the stories to end. He'd pleaded with Halbarad to stay and continue but with a slight smile and twinkling eyes the ranger had declined, telling Aragorn he would hear the rest when he came again to the Dunedain. Aragorn had informed him he expected that would be many years, if ever he came at all. Halbarad had not argued.

"I still remember the stories you told me on that journey to Rivendell."

"I didn't think you were listening at first."

"I wasn't. But the more you told, the more I found myself drawn to the legends of the mighty kings of Numenor. After you left I spent weeks in the library, poring over the histories of the Edain. Even then it never occurred to me that I might one day become a part of those histories."

"I knew. Some doubted, but I knew." Halbarad squeezed his shoulder. "But now is not the time for stories."

Aragorn turned his head and unfastened his cloak, draping it over the small load of firewood he'd brought in for the midwife Gaerwn an hour ago. He'd dropped it in front of the hearth and then returned to the wind and bitter cold under the pretence of going for another load. He knew Halbarad would see through his charade but the man had said nothing. The hours of listening to Lillianeth's pained cries as she struggled to give birth to their child had made him weary, but the silence that hung over the house after she'd collapsed had been unbearable.

She'd been holding his hand, her expression weary but determined, a wooden spoon clenched in her teeth as she was gripped by another contraction and she pushed hard. Gaerwn had been kneeling on the end of the bed, holding up the thin sheet around Lillianeth's knees. His wife had laughed when Gaerwn announced that she could see the child's head and scooted further up the bed to support the child's neck.

He could still feel the warmth of her slick skin as he'd leaned forward and kissed her forehead. She'd reached up and laid her hand against his cheek, nuzzling his neck, breathing heavily but smiling broadly. Gaerwn's sudden cry had startled him and he'd felt his stomach fall as she withdrew her hands from the sheet, painted with blood and Lillianeth's hand slid from his face.

Panic had seized him and held him tight as he shook his wife, shouting her name as Gaerwn scooped Lillianeth up into her arms, vial in hand. Halbarad's vice-like arms had locked around him from behind, lifting him off his feet as he dragged him from the room. Aragorn remembered weeping, his resistance ending when Halbarad kicked the door shut behind them and the silence fell.

"Tell me then, Halbarad. What is this the time for? What am I to be thinking, to be saying, to be doing? Any act of mine will be useless unless your lips have words to speak your eyes have not already spoken."

The hand on his shoulder stiffened and then let go. Halbarad's silence was painful, but the words Aragorn knew were coming would be moreso. Lillianeth was dying.

"Aragorn, I— Halbarad's voice cracked. He cleared his throat twice. "The child is unharmed but Lillianeth— the bleeding could not be stopped. I-I'm sorry."

Snow ticked against the shuttered panes and the north wind whinged, rattling the flagons on a shelf in the far corner. The lid of a cast iron cauldron clunked against its lip, spitting its contents onto the tinder beneath. The arid, earthy scent of the hearthstones parched his mouth as his gaze settled on three saddlebags, slumped against the grate, buckles bronzed by the flames.

His was leather, worn through at the corners. It had been a gift from Glorfindel when he first left the Last Homely House to join the Dunedain. The better part of fifty years had rotted the straps. The left buckle refused to fasten. Lillianeth was constantly patching the lining to keep things from falling out of the holes in the bottom. He smiled, licking the tears collecting in the corners of his mouth. Who would mend it now?

"My lord, you've little time."

Aragorn blinked. "What?"

His eyes flicked to the door at the back of the room. Gaerwn stood in the doorway, watching him. Her cheeks were scarlet, her hairline soaked with sweat beneath the edging of her faded claret headscarf. A rusty smudge Aragorn recognized as blood marked a broad stroke up her forearm and made his knees weak.

"Your wife, sir, she has little time left. A half hour at the most."

Aragorn nodded and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

"Thank you," he managed.

From the corner of his eye he saw the woman nod, casting a troubled glance at Halbarad as she left the room. The door stood open behind her and Aragorn watched as she went to the bed, her voice too soft to be heard as she nodded and laid another blanket over its occupant. He scrubbed his face with his hands, jamming a chapped fist against his mouth to stifle the sobs shaking his body. Halbarad shushed him, draping a warm fur-lined cloak across his shoulders.

"I can't do this." Aragorn shook his head as he stared vacantly into the flames, making no effort to stem the steady flow of tears. "I can't say goodbye to her."

"You will never forgive yourself if you let her slip away and say nothing."

Aragorn stood, veering away from Halbarad when the elder man reached for him.

"No! I can't!" He was stopped short by the broad mantel. Teeth clenched, he slammed his fist against it once, twice, three times. "I believed I would be the one to leave her. In spite of all the danger we face I never imagined she would be the one to—"

"To die?"

Aragorn flinched. The words hurt like a blade slipped between his ribs.

"Don't say that! She is elf-kind. This wasn't meant to be her fate."

"Even elves can die, Aragorn. They are not invulnerable, in spite of their immortality. They may fall to sword, famine or heartache just as you or I. You have dwelt among them. Surely in your heart, you knew this."

Tears softened Halbarad's weathered features and made him seem older. Aragorn nodded mutely. He did know, had known. Still, he'd prayed her fate might differ, that she might live thousands of years after his passing just as she had before his birth.

He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and stepped past Halbarad into the back room. It was dimly lit by a dwindling blaze. Two lanterns hung, barely burning, on either side of the bed where his wife lay. Wool covers hid her face, but he caught a wink of gold against the blankets as Gaerwn prodded the crumbling timber. The embers crunched, lighting the woman's face with a fearsome crimson tinge and turning her tears to blood.

Lillianeth coughed and Gaerwn turned, dropping the poker when she saw Aragorn standing at the end of the bed. Her olive eyes were sad and knowing, as if she knew the guilt he was feeling and the loneliness to come. It unnerved him and he cast his gaze bed in front of him as she left, pulling the door shut behind her.

His chest ached and he took a step closer, consciously releasing the breath he'd been holding. His wife's beautiful face was drained of color, greyish and waxy like one of the dead, her breathing was shallow. With each pause he feared she was already gone. He still couldn't bring himself to speak her name.

She coughed weakly and shuddered, settling back on the thin straw tick. A small bloodied bundle was snugged against her breast and as she dozed she felt it, tightening her grasp as though she feared death would take it from her hands. Her teeth chattered as he sank into the chair beside her bed, draping his fur cloak over her prone form. He slipped his hand beneath the blankets' edge and found her hand. It was ice. He lifted it, holding it to his lips and exhaled slowly, rubbing it between his leathered palms.

"Lia." Her eyes flitted fitfully beneath violet lids. He swallowed and spoke softly in Sindarin. "Lillianeth, can you hear me?"

Slowly her eyes stilled and the soft lashes parted, as if the motion pained her. Her azure eyes struggled to focus. Aragorn pressed her hand and she turned her head, smiling when she saw him. No one had a more beautiful smile than she.

"Hello."

Aragorn returned her smile reflexively and pressed her fingers to his lips.

"Good morning."

She laughed weakly.

"It can't be morning already."

"In two more hours the moon will set. That qualifies as morning."

She sighed, wheezing, but kept her smile.

"Perhaps to you. Most civilized people prefer to see the sun before they declare it morning."

"I'm not most people and I've rarely been accused of being civilized."

"True on both counts," she conceded. "I must, must be de-delirious."

She gently withdrew her hand, clumsily fingering the soiled rags that reeked of soured blood and sweat, frowning when she could not part them. He reached past her, tugging at a loose edge with one finger. His heart shot into his throat and the air rushed from his chest as he beheld the red and wrinkled face of his child.

Speech, had it been under his command, would have been useless. There were no words to express the deepness of his affection, his excitement, or his wonder as he gently touched his child's cheek with the tip of his finger. His wife laughed feebly.

"You won't break her, I promise."

"Her?"

Lillianeth nodded and laid her finger against their daughter's palm, her wan smile widening when five tiny fingers wiggled reflexively and held tight.

"Take her." Aragorn's silver eyes met his wife's blue ones, certain she could see his terror. "She will be yours to care for, Aragorn. I'm," she paused. "I'm not going to be there."

His vision blurred but he nodded as Lillianeth guided his hands, one under the child's neck, and the other at the small of her back. His hands shook and he prayed he wouldn't drop her as he gingerly lifted his daughter from his wife's arms. Tiny was the only word that came to his mind. Her nose, her eyes, her mouth, her ears, everything about her was small. She nearly fit in his two open palms. He touched the tip of her nose, smiling at her dark hair sticking up against the blankets' edge.

"She's beautiful."

"She is the best of us."

Lillianeth stretched out an unsteady hand, smoothing their daughter's dark hair with her fingertips and then shifted, tremulously propping herself up against the emaciated pillows. Aragorn carefully slid his daughter into the crook of his right arm and leaned forward, pulling the covers up around his wife's chest. Mindful of the child in his arm, he stood and stretched out beside his wife, ignoring the smell and stains of her labour bed as he laid the child between them.

Lillianeth smiled, her head tipping slowly toward her chest, eyes fixed on their child. Aragorn turned his head, his lips grazing her temple.

"What will we call her?"

"I leave that to you."

He frowned.

"Lillianeth I—

"I'm too tired to argue, Aragorn. Please, let's not waste what time I have left."

Aragorn tried mightily to swallow the knot in his throat so he could speak, but failed. He nodded instead. Lillianeth kissed his chin and looked down at the child asleep in his arms.

"I wish I could live, just long enough for you to remember me saying that I love you." Resting her cheek on his shoulder, Lillianeth leaned forward and kissed their daughter's head. Tears wet the child's hair as her mother struggled to find the breath to speak. "I-I lo-love you, little one."

Lillianeth laid back, lips still touching her daughter's downy head, an expression of utter peace making her gracious features childlike. Aragorn's heart tightened.

"Lia, no, please. Not yet."

"To all things there is an end, Aragorn," she murmured, her voice barely audible. Aragorn laid his cheek against her hair and breathed deep. "I have lived a good life. Eru blessed me with more than four thousand years. I have played, laughed, fought, wept and been loved by two of the greatest men I have ever known. Now I am a mother. How many have been so blessed?" She smiled. "I am content."

"Please, Lia, don't leave me."

She reached over his arm, her fingertips brushing their daughter's cheek.

"Do you remember what you said, when you were trying to convince me that we should have a child?" Aragorn sniffed loudly and closed his eyes, nodding. "You said our child will be born of our hope for this world, hope that the darkness will one day end, hope that Sauron will one day fall, hope that one day our peoples will be free."

"I remember," he whispered, pressing his lips to her temple and blinking quickly in an effort to stem his tears. "I remember."

"Do not forget it now."

Her violet lids slid slowly closed and he gathered her in his arms, his body framing her slender form, the child nestled between them. His lips brushed her ear as he spoke, his voice low.

"I love you, Lillianeth."

She smiled faintly, squeezing his hand as she snuggled closer to him.

"I love you…Aragorn."

With his name her voice faded forever, her last breath freed from her breast as a single tear skimmed across her cool cheek and loss bled through him.

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 1: Gone

Aragorn loves and marries another before Arwen, an elleth named Lillianeth, daughter of the last Noldorian king, Gil-gilad. However, their life together is cut short when Lillianeth dies during the birth of their child, a daughter named Aralynn. Short years later the Dunedain are attacked and Aragorn is separated from his child. Grief-stricken, Aragorn sets out to find his daughter, she who is Born of Hope. AU/OC.

*This story is the beginning of an arc revolving around Aragorn and his daughter that will show how her existence will alter the fate of Middle-earth, not to mention how she will change her father. Later instalments will follow the events of Tolkien's trilogy in an alternate universe sort of way, of course. :P Hope you'll stay along for the ride! ~Sierra*

Disclaimer: I do not nor have I ever owned Tolkien's worlds, works, or characters. I'm just playing in his sand box. Props to the master.

**Chapter One: Gone**

Spears of dead grass protruded from a skin of fresh-fallen snow as Aragorn led those men who had journeyed with him toward Emyn Uial. Clear skies heralded their passing, the pale winter sun thrusting the shadows of the Dunedain across the untenanted north lands of Eriador like wandering mountains.

He'd kept to the North Road until the crumbling turrets and seared palisades of Fornost were in sight, a sooty smudge against the hoary North Downs. There he'd turned west, forsaking the road for older, less travelled ways. Lillianeth would be laid to rest not in Mithlond or Imladris, but along the still depths of Nenuial, northeast of Annuminas, forsaken city of the forgotten kings.

Her hair shone as gold in the winter sun, her skin pale as the snow beneath. A slight smile touched her lips and a chain of sapphire snow flowers wound across her brow. Her hands were clasped against her swollen stomach, a silver star pressed between her cold fingers. In the morning light she favoured more a dreamer than one who will never wake.

Aragorn knew differently. Lillianeth was dead. The thought was immovable, fixed somewhere beneath the tangles of his dark hair as he shortened the left rein, following the trail of those he'd sent ahead to prepare her grave. His heart was lead. It hurt to breathe, to think, to swallow, to weep.

"Aragorn."

His eyes followed the direction of Halbarad's hand. Three horses stood tethered at the cusp of a copse of pine. The nearest lifted its head, watching them with fawny eyes and whickering welcomingly as Aragorn pulled the reins tight. A ranger broke from the shadows, a mere shadow himself as he ducked to skirt the bending boughs of the pines. He would lead them to the grave.

Aragorn's mount Beroth shifted uneasily, nudging its master's boot when he made no move to dismount. His knuckles paled and he gripped his saddle until he trembled, body rigid and jaw set, eyes straight ahead. If he didn't move, she couldn't be buried. If she weren't buried, he could still believe she was alive.

"My lord, the sun will soon be setting."

Aragorn's gaze shifted to the hand resting on his knee. Halbarad stood at his stirrup, his customary rancour forgone as Lillianeth was laid at the elder man's feet. Aragorn stared at his friend as if through a plate of fogged glass, struggling to swallow the anguish that threatened to send his gathering tears spilling down his cheeks.

"My lord?"

Aragorn lifted his eyes. The ranger that had spoken was the youngest of their small company. Aragorn frowned, searching for the boy's name. Telor. Not yet twenty summers if Aragorn's memory served him. The boy's wide green eyes were troubled, his face smooth, free of scruff or scars. Aragorn's heart ached for the child-soldiers of Arnor. They became men far too soon for their race and he was the one who led them to war.

He let his gaze wander, passing quickly from one man to the next. The young ones looked worried. Their elder companions were merely uncomfortable. Guilt pinched his heart. Most of the men that stood watching had lost one just as dear to them as Lillianeth had been to him. What right had he to so despair?

With some effort he managed to relax his shoulders and unclench his hands, trying to swallow in spite of the unseen fist he felt pressing against his throat. Halbarad stepped back. The tears started to come again but Aragorn blinked them away, slipping his foot out of the right stirrup and swinging his leg over the saddle.

He felt weightless as he dropped, and the world began to spin as if the ground beneath his feet was turning at a perilous rate. He reached quickly for Beroth, grabbing fistfuls of the stallion's long mane. Every fibre of his being shook, his knees buckled and he stumbled, bracing himself against his mount.

At the edge of his sight he saw Halbarad step forward as if to help him. Aragorn closed his eyes and breathed deeply. _Valar, grant me strength to see me through this day and those to come. Help me stand now, even if your grace must carry me. _He breathed deep and whether by will or answered prayer, managed to pull himself upright. Beroth huffed indignantly and shifted his weight to better accommodate his master's.

Aragorn smiled listlessly, stretching an unsteady hand toward the gentle beast's head as he found his feet. Beroth dipped his head beneath his master's hand, whickering approvingly when the ranger scratched beneath the strap of leather behind his ears. Aragorn bent, looping Beroth's reins around a post that had been driven in the soft ground at the foot of a towering pine. He paused, rolling the fallen pine needles between his fingers, head bent. For the first time in his memory, the full weight of his kingdom was on him. A physical burden that weighed on him like a stone lay against his shoulders, scraping flesh and grinding bone. He wished for nothing more than to be the unimportant rogue strangers believed him to be.

When finally he stood, Halbarad made a quick gesture with his left hand and four men stepped forward. Their faces were sunburnt and chapped from the bitter winds, their hands cracked and bleeding, but their austere stance told of the knights they held right to be as they took their places beside his wife. The others fell back and Aragorn stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the white birch bier lashed with boughs of pine. A mantle of jade velvet was draped across her and he knelt, tenderly tucking her cool feet beneath its edge. He nodded.

Without word or gesture the four men lowered themselves to one knee. Their gloveless fingers were dark against the fair skin of the mighty tree that had been felled to bear her to her grave. Up an inch, her slender body rocking slightly as the bier was raised onto strong shoulders and her sombre pallbearers stood.

Aragorn's eyes flooded with tears as he followed the men carrying his wife into the narrow game trail crowded with pine trees and elderberry bushes. His mother had warned him that ill befalls those who resist the fate of men. Had he known it wasn't his own fate he would ruin, he might have heeded her. Mortals were not meant to wed elves any more than hobbits were meant to live in trees. Elves were of air and sky, meant to dwell high among the vaults of the brightest stars while mortals were mired in earth and stone. His mind told him there was no place for one in the world of the other, but his heart said differently. Being with Lillianeth had been right, it had been perfect, like lying in a bed of sweet-grass on a summer night, looking up at the stars.

Aragorn shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around him as the path narrowed even further. The silence within the trees was eerie. Had he not been able to see patches of the sky above him, he might have guessed he was underground. The sounds of their footsteps were muffled, swallowed by the encroaching wildlife as the wind sighed high above them. He glanced at the men in front of him, watching as the bier shook the dusting of snow from the upper boughs and sent it adrift. Flakes like sparkling thistle seeds clung to Lillianeth's hair and settled in the folds of velvet draped across her slender frame.

He stopped short as the pressing closeness of the path fell away and he stood in a small clearing. White and coral stones, smoothed by the ages stirring, made her tomb. Each stone was fitted with a mason's care. Not a single fissure, no sign of the tools he knew they must have used to shape the simple tomb. Some part of the Dunedain remembered the skill of their sires and in his mind no greater work had ever been seen in the halls of the greatest kings.

The wind brushed a dusting of dry snow across the glade, just above the stiff crust of snow. It swirled and twisted, seeping and sucking, rippling like water as it lapped against Lillianeth's still form for an instant and then swept up over her body and into the trees.

Aragorn stared at her blue lips and bloodless cheeks, never having hated death until this moment. Outwardly he was still, but inside he raged, daring death to come and face him one moment and pleading for it to take him the next.

Around him the Dunedain took their places, circling the small mound of stones. They laid their hands upon the stars that fastened their cloaks and bowed their heads. Aragorn stood rigid, eyes fixed on the mouth of the sepulchre as Halbarad led them in the prayer every Dunedain could speak from memory by the age of three or four.

"Mandos we, although unworthy, beseech You take unto Your care our lady, Lillianeth. Keep her well until the day You have deemed our end, that we may find her standing at the gate.

"Comfort we who mourn her passing. Bless us that spirit may mend as flesh and ease the ache of mortal hearts so easily broken.

"May our lips and our lives speak well of she whom we loved." The timbre of Halbarad's voice deepened as tears slid down his crimson cheeks. "She whom we loved…dearly."

The four men standing at the corner posts of the bier knelt and Halbarad walked to its far end, the toes of his boots nearly touching Lillianeth's golden curls as he bent, reverently drawing the velvet swathe over her face. He side-stepped and the four men slid the bier, hand over hand, into the depths of her tomb.

"Her body here we shall inter, her spirit to you we entrust, for though the spirit lives on, the body becomes as dust."

As he spoke, Halbarad knelt, lifting the small stones that lay in a heap on either side of the tomb and piling them in front of the yawning crack of stone. Aragorn's chest tightened, he felt panic and he stepped forward as Halbarad's large frame hid his wife's shadowed body from him. Two of the elder rangers discreetly drew their shoulders together, barring his way as Halbarad worked quickly, sealing the entrance to her tomb with small white stones. Aragorn began to weep.

"Breath of life, fulfiller of dreams, maker of stars and of night, born are we into shadow, grace us with Your light."

The first quavering notes of Lillianeth's requiem were swallowed by the north wind as Aragorn struggled to find his voice. Tears coursed down his raw cheeks as his chest heaved and the solemn timbre of his voice swelled. The Dunedain had once raised their voices in celebration, mighty paeans that shook stone and made earth tremble. Now it seemed their voices were tired, thin, and all but spent. Too many dirges had they sung mourning those who'd fallen.

Yet Aragorn sang, straightening his broad shoulders and lifting his head high as he looked to the stars, imagining his wife among them as the others walked away. The wind stilled. Darkness came. Tears fell.

Lillianeth was gone.

* * *

"This is madness, Gaerwn. Have you lost all sense?"

"My sense is right where it belongs, unlike your nose, which seems to be inserting itself further into my business with every passing day."

Gaerwn held up a cotton shift, frowning when her fingers caught in a gaping tear in the seam. Dirk was a dear friend and the most talented smith she'd ever seen, but his smothering inquisitions were wearing her patience thin.

"But—

The rag basket in the corner shuddered when Gaerwn tossed the threadbare shift into it and turned toward the man standing in her bedroom doorway.

"No, Dirk, no buts. I've made up my mind." Dirk stepped back as Gaerwn strode past him into the main room. She dropped to her knees in front of the small hutch to the right of the hearth and opened the doors. "And I'll hear no more from you. I'll be fine."

"Fine, you'll be fine will you? Wandering across the plains of Eriador in the middle of winter, prey for wolves and worse, with a bunch of sellswords. Aye, you'll be fine all right."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you Dirk," Gaerwn called from the depths of the hutch. "What's more, the Dunedain are not sellswords and even if they were, what would be the harm so long as they served the right masters? They're men, not orcs."

"But what kinds of men spend their lives wandering from one desolate corner of the plains to the next?"

Gaerwn backed out of the cupboard, pulling a bundle of cloth with her.

"I don't know and neither do you."

She sat on her heels and untied the hemp crossed over the folded shifts. She set aside the first and unfolded the second as Dirk spoke.

"No, but I can guess. You barely see them before dark and when you do they're skulking in shadows like dirty thieves. Never see their faces. Hidden away in those cavernous hoods what nearly touch their chins. Hardly speak a word, not so much as by your leave when you pass them in the tavern. As like to stab you as not the way they're armed, look as if they're off to war. Probably make their living stealing from honest travellers and widowed farmwives. They're the worst of the worst, they are."

"You shouldn't believe all that's said over pints at the Prancing Pony."

Dirk's petulant frown deepened the furrows of his brow. His moss-green eyes burned.

"The Dunedain are a swarthy lot of scoundrels and I'll not have you runnin' off with them!"

He fumbled, barely catching the woollen shift before it hit him in the head. Gaerwn was fast on its heels. Small in stature, but mighty in will and temper, she was an imposing figure as she wrenched the shift from his hands and buffeted him across the chest with it.

"Eh! Lay off me, Gaerwn!"

"Quiet," she hissed, eyes flicking to the sleeping infant nestled in the reed basket on the table. "I've had enough of your tongue wagging about like some mongrel dog beggin' for scraps. You're neither keeper nor jailer to me and I'll come and go as I please."

Dirk stiffened as Gaerwn turned her back to him, tossing the shift-made-weapon on the chair in front of the hearth as she refolded the bundle and slid it back into the cupboard. When she'd first mentioned Halbarad's request that she go with the Dunedain to care for the child he'd seen her doubt, been comforted by it. Now, four days later, he wished he'd done more to encourage it, not only for her safety, but for himself as well.

His eyes followed her as she went into the next room, muttering to herself, adding the shift to the growing pile of belongings at the foot of her bed. She was really leaving. She stood on her toes and unhooked her dead husband's rugged saddlebags that hung from the rafters, flipping open the flaps and checking the pockets. Her rough hands moved quickly, her olive eyes glimmering in the lamp light as she drew out a pack of pipe weed. She paused, smiling wistfully as she brought the small pouch to her nose and then slid it back into the pocket she'd found it in.

"Gaerwn." Her hands paused as he stepped into the back room but she didn't raise her eyes to look at him. "Gaerwn, it's not that I want to control you. I want you to be free to live your life, but I gave my word to Ewan as he died that I would care for you."

"And I'm sure he laughed and told you I was quite capable of caring for myself," she snapped, stuffing her herb pouches into the left bag more roughly than was necessary.

"That's not the point."

Gaerwn whirled toward him, her finger jutting angrily in his direction.

"That's exactly the point, Dirk! My husband trusted that I would be able to survive without him. Why can't you do the same?"

Dirk bristled, his temper spiking dangerously as he stared at the seething midwife in front of him.

"I'm sure Ewan never envisioned you running off with some widower rogue to care for his newly born child in the middle of nowhere! Why didn't you just bed him while he was here? Never mind that his dead wife was lying in the next room and her child was in your arms."

The venom that passed his lips surprised even him and as soon as the words had left his mouth, he wanted them back. Her eyes widened and she staggered back as if he'd struck her. Why couldn't he have just told her how he felt? Would it have been so hard to say, "Because I love you?" Her mouth opened, but no sound came as tears darkened her eyes. She let them fall. His stomach sank and his mouth parched as he watched her small frame tighten and coil as if she might spring at him.

"How dare you," she whispered. "How dare you say such things of me?"

Rivulets of tears coursed down her scarlet cheeks and Dirk took a step back, stumbling when his shoulder met the door casing. Her sobs tore at him like a knife turning in his stomach as she glared at him, torn between fury and hurt.

"Get out, Dirk!"

"Gaerwn, I'm sorry, I—

"I said, get out! Get out, get out, get ooouuut!"

Both started when the infant's cries cut through Gaerwn's final shriek. Gaerwn pressed her back to the wall and slid gracelessly to the floor, swiping angrily at her face as hiccupping sobs shook her sturdy frame. Dirk's face was wet. His lips tasted of salt as he ran his tongue across them and turned to the babe in the outer room, blinking quickly.

He cleared his throat, hands shaking as he approached the basket on the table. Having had no children of his own he felt somewhat inept as he drew back the fur-lined blanket and peered down at the small red face. He stared at her, squirming inwardly as her cries became more urgent, more rhythmic. He glanced back at Gaerwn, hoping she might come to his aid, but to no avail.

Gingerly he slid his hands under the tightly wrapped child, one under her head and the other under her small trunk. It wasn't as though he'd never held a child. He'd held Ewan and Gaerwn's two children often enough. Slowly he shifted the child so that her head lay in the crook of his arm swaying back and forth slowly, while making small hushing sounds as he'd often seen Ewan do. Ewan's children had been the pride of his life. Dirk was convinced it had been their deaths that led to Ewan's own.

He hardly heard the knock at the door behind him over the child's wailing, but Gaerwn was already on her feet, sniffing as she wiped her face on her sleeve. She paused a moment at the door, inhaling slowly as she pushed the latch and pulled the door open. Dirk's hold on the infant faltered for an instant.

The man at the door stood well over six and a half feet, with shoulders the breadth of an ox. His skin was dark, his cheeks and nose sunburnt, emphasizing the darkness of his deep-set eyes. He stood tall and straight like a soldier but his dress was more that of a farmer except for a steely cloak that fell to his shins, fastened with a silver star above his heart. A deep scar ran along his greying hairline, nearly blending with the lines which age had added except that it was paler than the rest of his face. Yet for all he seemed a man of some age he moved with the ease of a youth, his figure was still lean and fit, his hold on the load of firewood balanced against his shoulder was still strong.

"Hello, Gaerwn."

Halbarad frowned when he spoke, studying the woman's blotchy face as tears seeped discreetly from the corners of her eyes. Her attempt at a smile fell short, but her effort gave him some comfort as she swung the door wide and stood aside to let him pass.

"Halbarad, please come in."

Halbarad nodded and crossed the threshold, his eyes cutting to Dirk above the midwife's head. Dirk's knees quivered and he sat hard in one of the table chairs as the giant's jaw tightened at the sight of the child nestled clumsily against Dirk's chest. For an instant he seemed to hesitate and Dirk struggled to find enough spit to peel his tongue from the roof of his mouth as the dark eyes bore hard into his own. The man seemed to be looking far beyond what Dirk could see, beyond his eyes into the depths of his very soul. He shivered. It was only an instant, but to Dirk it seemed an eternity before Halbarad rolled his left shoulder and strode peaceably past Gaerwn to the fireplace.

Halbarad knelt and began stacking the split timber in the basket at the left of the hearth, his eyes slanted so that he could see the man holding Aragorn's child from the corner of his eye. He'd heard Gaerwn shouting as he left the barn. The child's cries had stopped his heart and quickened his step, but he'd waited at the door, hand on the hilt. When he'd heard nothing more than footsteps he'd let his sword slip back beneath his cloak and knocked.

Gaerwn shut the door behind him and then came to stand at his side, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve as she watched him, her eyes flicking uncertainly toward the man in the chair. Halbarad clapped his hands to rid them of sawdust and slowly straightened his tall form, offering the woman a slight smile. She returned it.

"This is my, my friend, Dirk," she managed, hand sweeping toward the man in the chair. Halbarad nodded wordlessly. "You've had a long ride from Nenuial. You must be stiff with cold. Would you like some tea?"

Halbarad turned his attention from Dirk to Gaerwn, soothed by the knowledge that he could take the man off his feet without much effort. The woman stood at the hearth, already swinging the ever-present cauldron of boiling water toward herself.

"Actually, I've only come from Archet," Halbarad told her, pointing north in the direction of the smaller Bree-land township. "But I'd still be glad for something warm."

"Archet?"

Halbarad nodded, stepping past her to the seat to the right of the hearth, cupping the proffered drink in his chapped hands.

"There's a small tavern there with half a dozen rooms. Not the size of the Prancing Pony, but we've acrimony enough in your village without making enemies of those who don't yet doubt our purpose."

His eyes flicked to Dirk. The man caught his pointed gaze and squirmed slightly, obviously uncomfortable as the child continued to cry.

"Try laying her against your shoulder and rubbing her back, lad."

Dirk stiffened at Halbarad's use of the word lad, but said nothing. The man had shifted his sword so that it lay flush against his thigh, easily drawn and even easier run through a man. Dirk felt the gesture had been intentional, a less than subtle warning, but he couldn't be sure. Sword or not, Dirk was certain that Halbarad could dispose of him with little effort. He was also certain that Halbarad was keenly aware of this.

"How is Aragorn?"

Dirk was pleased when Halbarad's attentions returned to Gaerwn. He did however follow the man's advice and laid the crying babe against his shoulder, moving his hand over her back in small circles.

"Fair, I would say. Better since we laid Lillianeth to rest." Halbarad took a long draught of tea, the tightness in his shoulders easing as the child's crying gradually ebbed. "He sent me for the child, although as yet he knows nothing of my offer to you."

"Should I wait and speak with him then?"

Halbarad shook his head.

"Don't worry yourself about that. Aragorn trusts me." He paused, the corners of his lips twitching upward. "Either way, it appears you've already made your decision."

Gaerwn blushed slightly, following the ranger's gaze to the half-filled saddlebags on the foot of her bed. She nodded.

"I would be glad to serve the rangers. When do you leave?"

Halbarad looked over his shoulder as the setting sun bronzed the window panes behind him.

"Tomorrow at first light, if you can be ready."

The midwife nodded, a resolute calm having replaced her tears.

"I can be ready before dark, if you'd like. I could ride as far as Archet tonight and save you the ride through Bree again."

Halbarad smiled, his heart warmed by her sensitivity to the Dunedain's undisclosed need for discretion.

"My thanks." Halbarad unfolded his tall form and stood, setting the tin mug on the mantel. "I'll ready your horses. If we're going to try and make it to Archet, I'd like to do so before night fall."

Gaerwn's laughter gave him pause.

"I'll need but one horse. Just what exactly is it you think I'll be taking?"

Halbarad's laughter rumbled deep in his chest.

"Few are used to the life of a wanderer, but I shouldn't have underestimated you."

"I take no offence. If you could tack the roan gelding with the saddle hanging in the last stall on the right, I'd be grateful."

"I'll see to it," Halbarad called as he opened the door. "We'll leave in a half hour."

As the door shut behind the ranger, Gaerwn turned without a word, leaving Dirk alone in the outer room. He hesitated for an instant, and then followed.

"Gaerwn—

She cut him off, sharp and quick like the upward thrust of a dagger.

"No, Dirk, the decision is made."

"Gaerwn, please, let me speak." His plaintive tone seemed to soften her anger. She glanced at him over her shoulder, sighed heavily and sat at the head of the bed, patting the empty mattress beside her. Dirk sat obediently, his hand still moving in circles across the sleeping infant's back, more for his own comfort than hers. "I'm truly sorry for what I said. I know you well enough not to think such things. If I could take the words back, I would. It's just—He paused, struggling with his emotions more than his words. "I, well I uh, care about you a great deal and I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you."

Gaerwn smiled tightly as she reached out and laid her hand on his knee. It wouldn't be right to leave with words between them and she knew well enough how quickly angry words could come. She'd said things to Ewan she hadn't meant, had hurt him and he'd done the same to her. Somehow they'd always found their way past it. But this was different. She'd never fought with Dirk before and she couldn't help but wonder if some part of him truly did think she was leaving with the rangers because of Aragorn and not his child. She wasn't, but knowing that didn't make Dirk's accusation hurt any less.

He'd been so good to her though. Since Ewan's death he had become her closest friend. There'd been so many days that she'd just buried herself under the covers, fully intending to stay there and fade away. Then Dirk would pound on her door, demanding she fix him breakfast with a jar of jam in one hand and a basket of bread or eggs in the other. It had been Dirk that convinced her to continue as the midwife and healer for Bree-land and with each mended body or new life, her loss had slowly ebbed. She owed him so much and she truly did care about him.

She sighed, her smile more genuine as she squeezed his knee and stood.

"Apology accepted, you old fool. Now, give me that child before you drop her and see what you can do about fastening those bags to the girth."

Dirk's smile came quickly and he eagerly let her take the child from him, surprised to find he missed the small weight in the crook of his shoulder as he stood and began pushing the ties through their rusting buckles. She laid the child at the head of the bed and spread out three small cotton blankets. He watched from the corner of his eye as she skilfully set the child in the middle and wrapped her tight.

"Mercy Gaerwn, poor little blighter's not going to be able to breathe if you wrap her up like that."

Gaerwn rolled her eyes and scooped the infant up into her arms, kicking the heel of his boot as she passed.

"I've had a bit more practice at this than you. Why don't you let me be a judge of what's too tight and what's not? As it is, seems you're having a hard enough time with those bags."

Dirk frowned, his knuckles whitening as he tried to force the leather through a rusted buckle.

"Well, maybe if you took better care of your things, it wouldn't be such a fight to make use of them."

Dirk fed the last bit of leather through the buckle, pulled hard and hefted the bags up onto his shoulder. Gaerwn stood, hands crossed over her chest, staring at the fire. She wore one of Ewan's old coats beneath her own heavy woollen cloak. An evergreen shawl framed her pretty face and she held a pair of worn leather gloves in one hand.

"You look lost."

She turned, smiling.

"I feel as though I'm forgetting something," she offered, "but I can't for the life of me imagine what it might be." She shook her head and shrugged, sliding the fitted gloves over her leathered hands. "Oh well, whatever it is, I'll manage without it."

He smiled, watching as she wrapped the child in the fur-lined blanket he'd found her in a few minutes ago and slid her into a swath of fabric that hung around her, over her left shoulder and down to her right hip, holding the child in place against her stomach. For a moment she fussed, tugging the fabric this way and that and then tucked the child under her cloak. She held out her hand for the saddlebags.

"My sister Loreena will be here in the morning to look after things while I'm gone. I told her you'd offered to look after the animals and the planting for her in the spring, she's to look after the house and the garden. She's as skilled a healer as I am or better, so make sure she doesn't let the meddlers here walk all over her." She paused. "Oh and the extra potatoes are out in the barn in—

"Gaerwn." She stopped. "I know where they are and I'll see to your sister. Don't worry."

Gaerwn sighed and smiled.

"Sorry."

Dirk chuckled and brushed his thumb against her cheek. Gaerwn blushed, but didn't move away from his touch as her olive eyes held his gaze.

"Be careful, Gaerwn and promise you'll come back some day."

She took his free hand and squeezed it hard.

"I will, I promise." She turned and opened the door. "Just don't you spoil my horses while I'm gone. I want them fit to be used when I get back, not sulking house pets that can hardly stand on their feet."

Dirk chuckled as she pulled the door shut behind her. He shivered as the winter air stole the heat from the room and moved closer to the fire.

"Goodbye, Gaerwn. I'll be waiting for you," he pulled one of the chairs up against the hearth and sat, his boots against the grate, "when you're ready to come back."

He heard the thud of the barn door closing and the squeak of hooves in snow as the two horses passed the house, headed down the lane. He looked back over his shoulder at the empty room behind him and sighed. Gaerwn was gone.

To be continued...

I wish my health had allowed me more time for writing this year, but I haven't given up. Wishing wonderful things for all in the New Year. I've missed you and hope you will continue to wait for me. I welcome all queries, compliments, comments, criticisms, suggestions and questions. This is a writing forum...not a dictatorship. Everyone has the right to their opinion.

Merry Christmas ~ Sierra ~


	3. Chapter 2: Time to Go Home

Aragorn loves and marries another before Arwen, an elleth named Lillianeth, daughter of the last Noldorian king, Gil-gilad. However, their life together is cut short when Lillianeth dies during the birth of their child, a daughter named Aralynn. Short years later the Dunedain are attacked and Aragorn is separated from his child. Grief-stricken, Aragorn sets out to find his daughter, she who is Born of Hope. AU/OC.

*This story is the beginning of an arc revolving around Aragorn and his daughter that will show how her existence will alter the fate of Middle-earth, not to mention how she will change her father. Later instalments will follow the events of Tolkien's trilogy in an alternate universe sort of way, of course. :P Hope you'll stay along for the ride! ~Sierra*

Disclaimer: I do not nor have I ever owned Tolkien's worlds, works, or characters. I'm just playing in his sand box. Props to the master.

**Chapter 2: Time to Go Home**

Gaerwn breathed deep. The bitter frost in the air made her chest ache, but it was wonderful to be outside again. She hadn't left the house since the day Aragorn and Lillianeth arrived a week ago. Extended periods trapped indoors weren't uncommon this time of year living in the northlands where winter came early and stayed late into spring, but that didn't mean she had to enjoy it. As a child she'd spent her winters outside pitching snow as far across the yard as her arm could manage and dumping her younger siblings into snow banks. At day's end her father would tote them inside, stiff and red with cold as darkness fell. Her mother had always chastised them, stripping off their soaked clothes and filling them with hot tea and fresh bread that had always somehow been waiting.

Now as an adult Gaerwn had to wonder if her mother hadn't wished to be out there with them as the branch above her dumped its heavy load onto her and Halbarad as they passed. She felt a familiar thrill at the cool sensation and found herself smiling as she shook off the sparkling white dust. Beside her Halbarad seemed not to notice the snow that coated his sterling hood and he made no move to sweep it off as they rode down the trail to the town proper. In fact, Halbarad had made no move at all since they'd left her yard twenty minutes ago. She wondered if he was always so still and silent as the lights of the township peeked through the wafting branches of the evergreens. The heady smell of wood smoke filled the air and the mingling scents of roasted meats made her stomach twist with hunger as the familiar voices of those she'd tended in her years since coming to Bree carried easily on the stark night air.

Following in the long strides of the stallion beside her Gaerwn rode down the centre street, watching the ambling crowd as they parted quickly to allow them passage. Many of their faces were familiar to her and she realized suddenly that she would miss being a part of the nightly conversations of the Breelanders as they made their way to the warmth of the homes that dotted the hills on either side of the road. Near the Prancing Pony the crowds were thicker and their mounts were forced to walk to navigate the swathes of humanity that choked the roads. Gaerwn didn't mind. It would give her the chance to say a last minute goodbye to her friends. She caught a flash of yellow she recognized as belonging to the seamstress Mim and swivelled in the saddle to wave. What she found confused her. Mim stood, her two daughters held tightly against her as she watched Gaerwn, dark eyes sharp as daggers. The man just behind Mim hissed viciously, snatching the hood from his shoulders up over his head when Gaerwn tried to meet his gaze. Gaerwn looked again to Mim, certain she'd imagined the hatred in her neighbour's eyes. The woman merely gestured rudely and turned on her heel, her two little girls bobbing in her wake as she disappeared into the crowd.

Scanning the rest crowd she was met with similar gestures and sounds of censure. Surely this vulgarity wasn't meant for them? But looking behind them, Gaerwn saw no one else. Bewildered she looked to Halbarad for an answer. The man sat, face hidden in the shadows of his cloak, as still as ever, as though this was an ordinary occurrence. In an instant his words to Dirk earlier that evening came to her.

_We've acrimony enough in your village without making enemies of those who don't yet doubt our purpose. _

Gaerwn's jaw tightened her cheeks hot with anger. What a bunch of ignorant fools! Another hiss came from her right and she turned, glaring pointedly at the man. He quickly ducked back inside his house where his wife stood in the doorway, watching. She'd just opened her mouth to yell at the tanner's son for giving her a gesture too foul for the Dark Lord's minions when she heard Halbarad's muted voice beside her.

"Are you up for a quicker pace?"

Gaerwn's mouth snapped shut, the calm of his voice draining her anger. She cast a last withering look at the people she'd once counted friends and then nodded.

"Of course."

Halbarad squeezed his heels tightly against his stallion's side. With a shrill whiney the horse took off like a rabbit loosed from the snare. Gaerwn was quick to follow, mumbling to herself as branches whipped against her cloak. The lights of Bree were swiftly swallowed by the thick stands of pine that surrounded the gated village, but for Gaerwn it couldn't have been soon enough. She stole a glance at Halbarad, intimidated by the silence that seemed to surround him like some kind of impenetrable shroud. When the road widened at the bend she gathered her courage and nudged her horse forward so that her mount came abreast of his. In the dim light she saw his brown eyes flick toward her questioningly. Taking it as a sign of encouragement Gaerwn spoke.

"Why are the Dunedain so hated?"

Halbarad's eyes were once again on the road ahead of them and as his silence lengthened, Gaerwn began to doubt he would answer. She was surprised when he reined his mount in, setting a slower pace as they crossed to the far side of the wooden bridge that marked the end of Bree proper. Unbidden, Gaerwn's horse slowed to match the giant stallion's gait and although Halbarad didn't turn his eyes from the road she heard his words plainly.

"Because we remind people that the world is a dark place and they are not as safe as they would like to imagine."

Gaerwn wasn't sure what to say. He'd spoken with such certainty, with such mournful solemnity, that she didn't dare question his answer, but she didn't understand. As if sensing her unspoken confusion, Halbarad continued.

"We come to your villages with swords belted at our waists and bows strung over our packs. We are only invited when your people are threatened and we come to eliminate that threat. We do our jobs well, asking little in return, but our presence reminds the villagers of those we couldn't save." He paused. "Worse, our fallen remind them of the high price we pay for their safety. Our hands are stained with blood and our tunics reek of burnt corpses. To them we are an omen of ill things, of shadows and darkness, of death. They fear us. They hate us. But as much as they hate us they hate themselves more, because they believe they owe us a debt they are too frightened to repay. Their deepest fear is that we will come in the dark of night and demand payment. We cannot make them understand that they owe us nothing."

Gaerwn had never expected such an answer. She struggled to sort through the myriad of half-formed questions in her mind and in the end, chose the simplest.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do the villagers owe you nothing? Why do you fight and die to protect people that hate you?"

Halbarad finally turned his face toward her and in the half-light of dusk Gaerwn caught the sad smile that softened his stern features.

"They owe us nothing because it is our honour and our duty to protect them. We are of a people far older than they. Our forefathers swore in blood to protect these lands from evil during days so long ago only the Eldar now remember. We will hold to that oath until our end."

Suddenly, Gaerwn couldn't keep the gaze of the man beside her and the road passed under them without her seeing it or the trees that marked their way. Ancient races, blood oaths, and protectors of evil. It was too fantastic to be anything but a story told at the bedsides of children to fend off the darkness of the night. She'd always imagined the Dunedain as nothing more than simple folk, wanderers that didn't care for the confinement of a gated village. Yes they were armed, yes they often protected the village, but that was only because they were used to the dangers of the wilds, wasn't it? It was the only answer that made sense, but as her eyes flicked to Halbarad, shame settled in her stomach and wriggled uncomfortably. He didn't seem a man to lie or give false comforts, but the only alternative to that was that he was telling the truth and she wasn't sure she was ready to confront her fears if he was.

However, a more immediate fear offered an abrupt diversion as Gaerwn noticed a pair of riders ease from the cover of the trees onto the road a few yards ahead of them. She heard a snort behind her and turned to see two more riders half a dozen yards behind them. Their faces were hidden in the shadows of their hoods, but she could see the hilts of their swords protruding beneath their cloaks. Just as they were about to pass from her sight, the riders behind them quickened their pace, drawing closer. Gaerwn felt her heart ram against her tonsils as she whipped her head forward again, finding the riders ahead of them had slowed to match the pace Halbarad had set. She looked to Halbarad, imagining he would draw his sword and defend them at any second, but as the seconds wore on, he did nothing. Her hold on the reigns tightened so that she lost feeling in the tips of her fingers as the four riders drew closer and closer.

"Fear not, milady, you are among friends." Gaerwn started at the sound of Halbarad's voice, her eyes widening at the soft rumble in his chest that she realized belatedly was laughter. "They are the Dunedain left behind to watch over the child."

"Why did I never see them then," Gaerwn questioned sharply, angered by his laughter at her expense and her apparent lack of observation.

"You were not meant to see them. The Dunedain are very skilled at remaining unseen."

Gaerwn had no chance to further express her ire or her protests at being under the guard of strange men. One of the foremost riders called softly and Halbarad urged his mount forward to come abreast of the man. The two fell into soft conversation that was lost beneath sound of the wind in the trees and Gaerwn soon gave up trying to hear of what they were speaking. Instead, she disentangled one hand from the reins and slipped it beneath her cloak, tenderly stroking the back of the infant she could feel shifting against her stomach. Her hand paused as she felt, more than saw, the riders at her back move closer. One set his pace a foot behind her and the second took Halbarad's place on her left side. She watched, nervous as the second rider ahead of her that wasn't speaking with Halbarad drew back so that he rode abreast of her on the right.

Their proximity made Gaerwn uncomfortable as she realized abruptly that she knew absolutely nothing of the Dunedain. What was worse, Dirk's earlier cautions, which she'd dismissed as overprotective rambling, might have been wiser than she'd given him credit for. A wave of nausea rolled from her head to her toes as she looked at the large men riding on all sides of her, wishing on every star in the sky that Dirk was one of them. The man to her left murmured something softly to a man he called Halfed and received an answer from the man riding just in front of her. She caught little of what they'd said except Aragorn's name and the word baby. Gaerwn blinked, looking again to the riders. Their faces, hidden in shadow, were directed at the trees and every noise from the woodlands surrounding them drew their attention. In fact, they'd showed very little interest in her.

"Is the baby well, my lady?" Gaerwn was startled by the clear, strong voice of the rider ahead of her. "There is a clearing where we might stop if you have need, just around the next bend."

Relief brought warmth to her face. His simple question eased her fears enough for her to look at the riders surrounding her in a new light. They were not fencing her in, they were protecting her, forming a barrier between she and anyone who might mean her harm. Gaerwn's hold on the child beneath her cloak tightened briefly and she smiled, realizing that the riders weren't protecting her, they were protecting Aragorn's child. Her smile dimmed slightly as she remembered Halbarad's earlier words regarding the Dunedain. Who could this child be that she warranted such protection? More importantly, who was her father that he alone was addressed as lord among these men and his daughter was guarded like the child of a king?

The rider ahead of her cleared his throat pointedly and Gaerwn flushed, realizing she still hadn't given him an answer.

"How, uh how far are we to Archet?"

If the rider named Halfed noticed her embarrassment, he chose not to comment as he looked ahead to the road briefly before turning to face her again.

"Thirty minutes provided we keep this pace, my lady."

"She will be fine until then, it was Halfed wasn't it?" Gaerwn asked. The man hesitated before nodding slowly and Gaerwn wondered if he was surprised she'd been listening. "Thank you, Halfed."

"Of course, my lady."

"She, my lady?"

Gaerwn was startled by how young the voice that had asked the question sounded, as she turned to the rider that had asked it on her right.

"You didn't know?" The rider shook his head and Gaerwn blushed. "My apologies then, perhaps I spoke out of turn."

"Tis all right, Gaerwn," Halbarad called from the front of their small group. "It's no secret. Only that Lord Aragorn hasn't said much of her since Lady Lillianeth's death."

Gaerwn held the infant in her arms more tightly, as if such an action could protect her from the knowledge of her mother's death. Cheerless silence fell over the Dunedain riders. Gaerwn said nothing, her heart aching for them as she rocked the baby slowly.

"W-what's her name then?"

It was the young rider that spoke, breaking the grim silence that had fallen and Gaerwn resisted the urge to smile as the other riders grumbled in unison.

"You would have to ask her father, Rider. I know not."

"Kaden!" The stentorian bark of the rider behind her made her jump. "That's enough of your prattle. We brought you in place of Telor to avoid such foolishness. You'd do well to make me think it wasn't a mistake or I'll have you chopping firewood and fetching water for Mira for a month after we return."

"Y-yes, Aram."

Gaerwn tucked her nose into the collar of her cloak, hiding her smile as the man behind her continued to grumble under his breath. The young man named Kaden sat rigid in his saddle, his attention suddenly fixed on the surrounding forest as Gaerwn caught sight of lantern light through the pine boughs. The sun had just dipped beneath the Barrow Downs when Gaerwn and her companions arrived at the tavern in Archet. The village was nothing more than a few dozen squat buildings, circled by a thick stand of pines. There were no gates here as there were in Bree proper and Gaerwn began to understand why so few of the Breelanders ventured this far north. She felt uncomfortably exposed without the hills of Bree sheltering her from the sight of outsiders.

A large stone building stood at the centre of the town, two stories high with a sign split down the centre that read _The Pine Pub_ and she followed silently as the Dunedain made their way toward it. Halbarad brought them to a halt just outside the doors, but made no move to dismount. Gaerwn looked to her companions enquiringly, but they appeared untroubled by Halbarad's silent waiting. Finally, one of the shadows near the doorway moved and Gaerwn fought to keep from screaming as the shadow became a man in a sterling cloak, like those of Halbarad and the other Dunedain. He moved to Halbarad's stirrup and spoke quietly for a moment before at last Halbarad swung down from his saddle. Gaerwn quickly moved to follow, cold now that they were no longer moving. She unfastened one of the saddlebags from her girth and frowned when Halbarad immediately took it from her hand.

"I'm perfectly capable of carrying that for myself," she snapped, glaring at the man towering beside her. Gaerwn sensed, more than saw, the others stiffen and realized that she had once again spoken out of turn. She tried to swallow, but found her tongue too big for her mouth as she glanced at Halbarad fearfully, remembering the sight of his sword earlier that evening. "I-I mean, I—

"I'm aware you're capable, my lady, but I am equally capable of carrying it for you."

Halbarad said nothing more as he strode toward the door of the _Pine Pub_, leaving Gaerwn running to catch up as he turned, waiting for her at the door. He pushed the door open when she stood beside him on the stoop, laying his large hand against the small of her back as he guided her through the door to the warm lights and roaring fire of the tavern. Gaerwn blinked as her eyes adjusted to the brightness of the room. A dozen round tables were scattered in front of the fire in no particular order as if they'd sprouted up like mushrooms, but there were no bodies to fill the chairs as Halbarad led Gaerwn up the stairs. She was beginning to understand why the Dunedain liked Archet if this place was always so quiet and empty.

Halbarad knocked softly against the last door on the left in the upper hallway and then opened it. He paused, motioning Gaerwn forward as he stood in the doorway. Cautiously, she entered and found Aragorn sitting in a wooden chair, boots against the grate, staring unseeingly into the flames. Behind her Halbarad drew the door shut, sliding her bag from his shoulder, his eyes fixed on Aragorn.

"We're back," he bellowed. Aragorn didn't lift his head. "Should be a fine day tomorrow from the looks of the sky and the wind's finally turning suthard, which is a blessing to be sure. That northern wind blows right through a man and makes my old bones ache."

Gaerwn lingered near the door, concerned as Halbarad bent and laid another log on the fire at his lord's feet. Aragorn was doing less than fair, if her opinion counted for anything. The child in her arms squirmed, making a soft sucking sound as she sighed in her sleep. Gaerwn drew back her cloak, running her finger along the infant's pale cheek. Aragorn lifted his head, turning his bleary eyes toward her. Gaerwn took a deep breath and forced her lips to curve upward into a broad smile.

"Good evening, my lord. Tis good to see you again."

"Hello, Gaerwn."

His response was sluggish, but encouraged slightly by speech Gaerwn felt her smile become more genuine, as she busied herself with unfastening her cloak. Halbarad took it from her and draped it over the empty chair across from Aragorn, as Gaerwn lifted the bag he'd set by the door, dropping it onto the foot of the small bed beneath the window. She laid the child beside it and unwound the outer layer of blankets. Her eyes were inevitably drawn to the child's pointed ears as she loosened the swaddling that had kept the child warm from Bree to Archet and her stomach growled as she lifted the sleeping babe from the bed. Gaerwn blinked, surprised by her idea as she tucked the child carefully against her breast.

"My lord?" Aragorn showed no indication that he'd heard her speak, but Halbarad looked at her quizzically. Gaerwn wondered absently if she had spoken out of turn yet again and made a mental note to question Halbarad about proper etiquette among the Dunedain, as she plunged ahead, ignoring the growing heat of her cheeks as she approached Aragorn's chair. "I'm afraid in my haste I've not eaten since this morning. I wonder would you hold her while I go get something to eat? I won't be but a few minutes."

Gaerwn gave the man no time to argue as she held out the baby to him, lifting his left elbow to cradle the child's downy head. Aragorn's lips moved as though he wanted to protest, but no sound came as he caught sight of his daughter's face.

"She shouldn't want anything to eat for another half hour or better and I'll be back by then," Gaerwn assured him, fussing a bit with the infant's blanket just to be sure her father had a hold on her.

"I'll take you down," Halbarad offered and Gaerwn thanked the elder ranger, seeing in his dark eyes that he'd caught on to her plan. "I've left Aram to set the watch, although they've seen no one since our departure from Bree. I thought it best to be careful in a strange place. I'll see to Gaerwn and get a bite and a pint myself, then bring you something."

Aragorn was too stunned to say anything as Halbarad ushered Gaerwn quickly through the door. At a loss, he looked down at the sleeping child in his arms, surprised to find his wonder no less now than when he'd first held her. Her hair still stood in all directions. Nose, mouth, ears, ten fingers, two hands, two feet, everything seemed to be in order, yet something was different. He frowned. She'd changed already. She seemed no larger, no stronger, no more alert, but something had changed. He wasn't quite sure what _it_ was, but whatever it was, he'd missed it. How much more would he miss?

Lillianeth was dead. Her body was in the ground. But this child, _his_ child, was very much alive. Her whistling breaths were proof as she slept, little disturbed by her new position in his arms. In and out, in and out, in and out. He repeated the words to himself in his mind as he studied the infant against his chest. He didn't trust himself to move for fear he'd harm her somehow. She seemed so fragile, so frail, so precious. Tears welled, blurring his vision as they spilled onto his rough cheeks. She was so precious, so beautiful. Tentatively he shifted her so that he held her in one arm, freeing a hand to trace the rounded contours of her beautiful face.

Aragorn sniffed, his tears continuing to fall as he stroked her silken hair. The tip of his finger was bigger than her nose. He licked the salt from his lips, but didn't brush away the tears that wet his beard, unable to look away from the miracle in his arms. However, these tears were not tears of sorrow like those he'd shed only days ago at Lia's grave. These were tears of wonder, of joy, of thanks, thanks for this little girl, his daughter. He closed his eyes, choking back a sob as he lifted the tiny body against him, brushing his lips reverently against her brow.

"I love you, my precious blessing," he murmured in Sindarin. Somehow it seemed uncouth to speak to his child in the common tongue. "I love you, so much."

He turned his face, laying his head against her tiny chest as his child slept blissfully on, unaware of the pain the world would bring. A feather-light touch made his eyes snap open and he smiled through his tears at the sight of her tiny hand laid against the end of his nose. And then he laughed. He wasn't sure why, but once he began he couldn't stop and it felt wonderful. He took her tiny wrist between two of his fingers, pressing his lips against the tiny digits carefully. She grunted in response and squirmed against his chest, before settling back into his arms, her cheek pressed against his tunic.

The fire was nearly dead and his tears had long since dried when she moved again, making pained faces at him in her sleep. Then she squirmed, filling Aragorn's stomach with the fluttering wings of butterflies as he tried to hold her gently in place. He stood quickly and cringed, his body rebelling against the sudden movement after so long in his chair, as he swayed gently from side to side. It did little to still her restlessness and with only a squawk for warning his daughter began to wail, her whole body quivering as she pumped her fists and feet furiously. Aragorn smiled. She had his temper it seemed.

Carefully, he slid her into his wide palms and lifted her to the crook of his shoulder. She drew her feet tightly against her body, her head lolling back as she continued to wail. Aragorn laid one finger gently against her neck, supporting her head with the practiced ease of a healer who has delivered many children. Her head pitched forward against his shoulder as he rubbed her back in tiny circles, a movement as much for his own comfort as hers. The words of a song often sung to him by Elrond as a child came unbidden and he began to hum softly. His spirit was raw and ragged, torn by the shattered splinters of a broken heart, but perhaps all was not lost.

_To think Aragorn, we created this life. Both of us in this once tiny being. We'll never be apart._

Lillianeth's words were clear in his mind, spoken from another time and another place. For a moment he was sure he could smell her, feel the brush of her supple body against his side, but it was only a dream and he sighed as he left the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. The hallway was poorly lit and cold. He shivered, sweeping the edge of his cloak over his daughter. The wind shrilled through a cracked casement at the end of the corridor and he paused in the shadows to the left of the window, scanning the ground outside. The wall was cold and damp against his shoulder and outside snowflakes the size of thistles fluttered and whirled, bursting into sparks of silver fire when the wind chanced to grasp them. There was no one there. No enemies. No monsters lurking in the shadows. No one but two of his own men, nearly shadows themselves. That didn't ease his fear.

He had enemies, men and worse creatures, beings that would forego nothing to cause him pain. Formerly few people were close enough to him that their suffering would bring him pain and those who were had more skill in battle than he did, but not her. He held the child hidden under his cloak more tightly. What if they learned of her? What if they came for her? Was he strong enough to protect her? His mind flew instantly to Rivendell, his heart racing as he hurriedly measured the leagues and hours to the Ford of Bruinen and the Last Homely House. He and Elrond had not parted on good terms, but he knew the elven lord well enough to know he would refuse no one seeking refuge, particularly a child. But if she was in Rivendell he wouldn't be able to watch over her, to see for himself that she was safe. He couldn't protect her if she was so far and a small part of him admitted selfishly that he needed her. She was all he had left of Lillianeth now. She was the only thing that had made him smile.

Guided by the muted pall of lamp light Aragorn made for the stairs. This was not the night for such decisions to be made. For now she would stay with him. The Ford would be too treacherous to cross until the ice flows and flooding ebbed late spring without the elves to help them cross and the last three falcons he'd sent to the northern reaches of Eriador had not returned. He and his kin were being watched. He could feel the unfriendly eyes upon him even as the clunk of flagons and whirr hushed conversation grew near the top of the stairs.

The rangers sat, grouped around the tables nearest to the fire. They glanced at him discreetly, taking his measure as he began his descent, his daughter's cries having waned to whimpers beneath his practiced hand. Aragorn squirmed inwardly. He hadn't felt so uncomfortable under the eyes of the Dunedain since the day he first offered his sword to them in service. Then he had sensed their animosity and ire, having just learned of Aragorn's claim to his father's title of Chieftain. This night he felt their concern and their pity. He wasn't sure which of the instances nettled him most. Now as then none of the men but Halbarad would meet his gaze. Every one of them had been cosseting over him since Lillianeth's death. He'd have to put an end to that and quickly. Such distractions led to swift deaths in the wild. Unfortunately, Aragorn understood that putting an end to the coddling of his men would mean casting aside any sign of mourning for Lillianeth. Leaders were not allowed to grieve he supposed, not even for the ones they loved most. Grief clouded judgement and leading his people required every ounce of discernment his mortal mind could manage in these dark days.

"I expected to see you before this, milord," Gaerwn commented with a smile as she crossed the room, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs. "I fear I lost track of time. She's well due for her next feeding." Aragorn looked blankly at the sturdy woman in front of him as she held out her hands. Her olive eyes sparked. "I'll give her back, I promise. We'll not leave your sight."

Aragorn felt his cheeks flush, surprised to find she read him so easily.

"T-thank you."

Gaerwn said nothing, but dipped her head quickly as she cradled his daughter against her, cooing as the babe began to cry again. Aragorn stood unmoving at the bottom of the stairs, watching as the midwife walked away with his daughter, frightened by the tightness in his chest.

"You must be Strider." Aragorn started at the merry greeting of the barmaid that had suddenly appeared at his elbow. She didn't wait for his affirmation, gesturing for him to follow her toward the tables where his companions sat as she continued. "Glad you could finally join us. Your little one is as pretty a thing as any I've ever seen. Your friend was afraid she might disturb our other boarders but I've told him we've not had a one since that nasty squall a week ago. The only creatures other than your men that are fool enough to pass this far north so late in the year are orcs or thieves and they're as unwelcome as the weather." The woman pulled out an empty chair to the left of Halbarad and Aragorn sat without argument. "You'll be needing something to eat. Be just a minute."

The woman was gone as quickly as she'd come, with nothing but the swishing of skirts and the swinging of a door to suggest she'd ever been.

"Good of you to join us, Strider."

Halbarad hesitated in using Aragorn's common name, a teasing light in his eyes, knowing well how much the younger man disliked it. The name had been prompted by Aragorn's exceptional tracking skills. He could find sign of an elf on a stone ledge and cover more ground in a day than many men in a week. Halbarad often joked that Aragorn couldn't cover more ground if his feet sprouted wings. Still, Aragorn preferred Strider to the moniker given him by the Breelanders. His royal ancestors were probably turning in their tombs. Aragorn peered at his companion as the elder man brought a brimming pint of ale to his lips and drank, froth spilling down his chin. Two could play such a game. Aragorn cleared his throat.

"Good to see you also, Mother Hen."

Halbarad sputtered into his drink, setting his flagon down hard as he ran his sleeve across his face and glared at his lord. The Dunedain sniggered into their plates, heads bowed. Aragorn had bestowed the name of Mother Hen on Halbarad when he'd first come to the Dunedain as a teen. Halbarad's overprotective tendencies in all things concerning his young lord had annoyed the headstrong and somewhat reckless Aragorn to no end. His only means of retaliation had been to tease the elder man mercilessly about his maternal qualities. He'd certainly been no match for Halbarad in combat or wits with less than a score of years to his name.

However, Aragorn continued to use the name when he wanted to goad the elder man, even though the days since Halbarad had served as his young lord's tutor and guardian had long since passed. Aragorn had never shied from using it in front of others and it was now a term used among all the Dunedain, although Aragorn was the only one permitted to use it in Halbarad's presence. Being Halbarad's lord and closest friend – if the dour man could be said to have a friend – gave both men certain liberties with one another that none other among the Dunedain could claim.

"If it weren't that killing you would leave a fatherless child, I would," Halbarad managed to ground out, returning to his ale as the barmaid appeared between them.

"Here we are," the woman chirped brightly. "A plate of stew and some spiced ale."

She waited at his shoulder, her hand resting on the back of his chair, watching as he took the first bite. Aragorn nodded appreciatively.

"Thank you, it's good."

The barmaid smiled, the wisps of golden curls that had escaped her bonnet bouncing when she shook her head.

"Not at all, milord. If you've need of anything, I'll be in the kitchen. Through that door to the right." She laid her hand on his shoulder, directing his gaze to a water-stained door left of the bar with a wooden serving tray. He nodded, wincing as her grip on his shoulder tightened painfully. "Horace! You blundering sluggard! Watch what you're doing with that barrel. If those flagons end up on the floor I'll mop the bar with your grimy mug."

The rotund man at the bar grinned as he hefted the source of her concern up onto the bar with a flat thud. He grunted and laid it carefully on its side, rolling it into the empty rack. Stepping back, he surveyed the barrel, nodding his head appreciatively as he clapped dust from his hands.

"Look there lass! Isn't it a dandy?"

The barmaid huffed and glared at him, gesticulating wildly with her serving tray as she stomped toward the bar.

"You could have broken every dish the way you were swinging that around."

"But I didn't, did I?"

Horace winked. The woman's petulant frowned deepened.

"Not this time."

Horace chuckled and walked around the end of the bar, grabbing the woman's shoulders and turning her toward the door.

"Come now lass, back to the kitchen with ye. I've a guess as these gentlemen would like to eat in peace and they're not like to do that with yer caterwauling."

Aragorn sensed that would not be the end of their argument, but heard no more as Horace whisked the woman through the door and presumably, off to the kitchen.

"They're quite a pair," Aragorn observed as he wet his bread in the juices of the meal in front of him.

"They remind me of my mother and father," Telor mumbled peevishly as he slumped into the chair on Aragorn's left.

Aragorn glanced at the young ranger beside him, quickly scooping a spoonful of stew into his mouth at the sight of the young man sulking and struggling to keep from smiling. However, Halbarad made no such efforts and the deep timbre of his laughter boomed from his broad chest, loud and deep, startling the younger rangers with his mirth. Telor's face reddened as the others joined in Halbarad's laughter, although one of the younger ones, Kaden, had the decency to look sheepish as Telor shrank against his chair, staring at his boots.

Both young men coveted the respect of their comrades, but Telor's uncanny aptitude for creating discomfiting circumstances made it difficult for him. Aragorn smiled sadly, knowing one day Telor would take his place among his grim-faced brethren. His young face would darken, his lips hidden beneath a sable beard. He would grow into the ill-fitted tunic and tromping boots that scuffed when he walked. His hands would steady at the touch of steel, bringing calm instead of fear. His voice would grow haggard and his brilliant blue eyes would harden, appearing cold to any but a lover or a child. He would see his friends and family die by the sword just as he would live by it. Then, one day he would look upon a gangly youth like himself, uncertain and apt to say what is least meant and wish to be that boy again as Aragorn did now.

"If that's the case, it's a wonder you're here at all Telor."

Telor shot a withering look at the ranger named Brom. The man's expression was one of boredom, his eyes the only indication that he was amused. He was only a dozen summers older than Telor, but already the rigour of his kindred had settled upon him. A pale scar ran the length of the left side of his face and he fingered it reflexively as the others chuckled, settling back in his chair, little bothered by having provoked Telor's temper.

"Ah they didn't have anything to do with it, Brom. Telor was found on a riverbank one fine summer's morning, making such a racket that not even the geese could be heard," said Halfed with a grin, earning another chorus of laughter.

"Strider." Aragorn glanced at Halbarad as the conversation of his men turned to idle threats and wry remarks. "What now?" Halbarad braced his forearms against the table as Aragorn shovelled another mouthful of stew into his mouth. "You've not been one for conversation as of late, but I told the men to be ready to leave as early as tomorrow. Although we could just as easily stay another week." Halbarad paused. "Or go another road."

Aragorn chewed ruthlessly, his eyes hard as he turned them to Halbarard and swallowed. He knew well what road Halbarad would have him take.

"I will not to Rivendell unless I've no other direction. There is nothing there for me or my daughter. As it is, this time of year we could not make the crossing of the Ford without the help of the elves, which you well know. As do they. The watches are set too far from the bank for us to hail them and they will not return to the banks until spring."

"The westlands are treacherous. No place for a child, Strider."

Aragorn glanced at his men. His exchange with Halbarad had gone unnoticed thus far. Their better nature was beginning to appear, aided by warm food, good ale, and the promise of a night under a roof after days travelling across the unsheltered plains of Eriador. Brom bellowed irritably for the barmaid and a few of the elder rangers chose to take their leave, passing up the stairs as shadows. Only Aram seemed to be the slightest bit aware of the tension between Aragorn and Halbarad and Aragorn trusted the man would pay it no mind unless tempers began to flare. Then as always his friend would intercede. Aragorn knew, having trained with Aram for long hours and having endured Halbarad`s wrath with him as a younger man that Aram would side with Aragorn. Aram`s loyalty to his lord was resolute and immovable, even though the one Aragorn most often fought with was the man`s father. Aragorn sighed, returning his attentions to Aram`s sire.

"I cannot hide while those under my care are slaughtered by a malice I don't yet understand. The shadows are deepening. Everywhere the air is tainted with them, the foul reek of some hand stretching across Middle Earth as though to smite all who dwell here."

"More's the reason for you and your child to stay hidden. Await the passing of the shadow. You'll serve no one if you're dead!"

Halbarad`s voice was rising and had won the attention of the men closest to them. Even Gaerwn was watching from her seat in front of the hearth, her expression one of unease.

"I do them no service by hiding either." Aragorn spoke lowly, in an attempt to settle Halbarad as the man shifted in his chair restively, turning his shoulder to shield their conversation from the others. "Besides, you know as well as I that such shadows do not simply disappear. They will cover this land in darkness unless someone forces them to do otherwise."

"And why must that someone be you," Halbarad snapped.

Aragorn sensed the Dunedain bracing, their conversations mere whispers now. Arguments between he and Halbarad were legend, Halbarad being the only man among the Dunedain permitted to cross the lines of friendship and service. Halbarad had taught Aragorn much as a younger man and now was grateful for the man`s harsh measures – he could still feel the sharp rap of the pommel of Halbarad`s sword against his head. Although he`d forsaken such corporal measures, it seemed Halbarad still felt it his duty to force sense into Aragorn`s blessedly thick skull.

"Think of your child, Strider." Aragorn's eyes flicked unbidden to the babe that suckled at Gaerwn's breast as the woman cooed softly, her finger held tightly in his daughter's wee hand. "You're all she has left, pitiable succour as a scoundrel like you may be. You've more to consider than yourself now, Aragorn. Goat's milk will not keep her for long. You don't even have a wet-nurse to tend her."

Aragorn raised a brow.

"Was that an offer, Halbarad?"

Halbarad scowled at Aragorn's cheek.

"You know well that's not what I meant, Strider."

Aragorn nodded wearily, pushing his half-finished meal away as he tipped his head against the back of the chair, wincing as the cracked seat pinched his thighs. He wished Lillianeth were here. They'd foreseen Halbarad's efforts to secret them away the day they'd told him that Lillianeth was with child, but he'd stymied every pre-emptive argument they'd made to dissuade him. Halbarad wanted Aragorn and his family safe from the shadow's reach. Aragorn was only glad that they'd managed to hide what he'd learned from Gandalf and his brothers. If Halbarad knew of the shadow's true purpose Aragorn would have no leverage in the matter. As it was Aragorn's own concerns were gnawing at him. Could he really protect his child from something so potent, so malevolent? Then again, was one place in Middle-earth any safer than another? Aragorn sighed.

"I presumed that Gaerwn's presence here meant that you'd already taken care of such matters for me."

"Aye, she's agreed to come with us, but that doesn't mean we can't take her back to Bree. Or better, to Rivendell and you with her. A ranger's life is no life for a child."

"And yet your five children have lived it, as have Telor, Halfed, and you before them."

"They were not the child of the king," Halbarad exploded, his chair clattering to the floor as he stood. "What will be our fate if she dies, Aragorn? You fight the shadows of dead kings, run from what is yours by right, and seek peril no man should face. You've sought after death for forty years. How it has denied your incessant harping I'll not guess. You do not intend to live to take the throne, but what of her? What hope will be left to us when your fate is sealed if she should fall?"

Aragorn unfolded his broad frame with determined care. Halbarad took a step back, dark eyes flashing and jaw tight, his pulse thrumming dangerously. Aragorn met his anger with piercing silver eyes, wordlessly warning Halbarad to tread no further on his lord's good temper.

"I am no man's king."

In the silence that had fallen Aragorn's quiet words rumbled like thunder settling in the next valley. Every man was still, each one reminded with those words that he was indeed king. Aragorn, not Halbarad, was Chieftain and lord of these lands, whether he wished it to be so or not. He would not be intimidated nor would he be ordered about like some unseasoned stripling.

"Father, let it be." Aram stepped between them, his back to Aragorn as he spoke to his father. "Go now before Lord Aragorn has further reason to send you."

Halbarad didn't answer, his eyes fixed on Aragorn, his body rigid. Aragorn held his gaze as he stepped forward, laying his hand on Aram's shoulder.

"You will not need to ask him again, Aram."

Aram glanced back at him, doubt in his dark eyes. At the edge of his vision Aragorn saw Brom and Kaden slowly rise from their seats. Halbarad saw them too and growled, turning on his heel with such speed that his cloak snapped behind him. No one moved as he wrenched the door handle downward with a vicious twist and pulled. Aragorn winced as the door slammed behind him with such force that the bottom hinges tore from the casing.

"Are you all right, my lord?" Aragorn nodded, scouring his face with the heels of his hands. Aram could be as much of a worrier as his father. "Perhaps it is time we all turned in? The hour is late and we've a long journey ahead of us."

Aragorn expected protests, but there were none. Aram lingered, watching as the others followed his direction, waiting until he heard the last door close to speak.

"I've never seen Father so angry with you, Aragorn, and you've a rare talent for provoking him."

"Nothing compared to you, my friend."

"Father and I are too much different, just as he and Mira are too much alike," Aram quipped, flashing his lord a canted grin. "Do you want me to come with you? When you go to speak to him I mean. You may need my protection."

Aragorn scoffed.

"We both know his bark is worse than his bite."

Aram's dark eyes softened.

"Aye, but he's afraid, Aragorn, afraid of losing you, both of you. As am I. Promise you'll at least consider what he's said? For her sake."

"Aralynn."

Aram blinked, startled by his lord's quick reply where there should have been evasion.

"What?"

Aragorn cleared his throat.

"Her name, it's Aralynn."

"Aralynn," Aram breathed. "I had expected it to be elvish."

Aragorn's eyes gleamed in the lamplight and Aram felt his throat squeeze uncomfortably at the sight of his lord's tears.

"I will leave it to the elves to give her what name they will. They have more hope than I."

"You are hope enough for us, Estel," Aram whispered, watching as Aragorn's eyes widened at the use of his elvish name. "Just be sure you keep some for yourself." He paused, smiling. "And for little Aralynn."

Aram clasped the man's shoulder briefly as he turned to leave, startled by the sight of the young woman that stood watching them, her expression a mix of bewilderment and fear as she held tightly to Aragorn's child. Clearing his throat, Aram nodded to the fireplace, being sure that Aragorn's gaze followed before making his way up the stairs.

_The child of a king. _Gaerwn could not stop the phrase from echoing through her mind. She felt numb. It couldn't be true. No king would live the life of a Dunedan. _The child of a king._ King of what? Of where? Her heart stopped. _The child of a king. _Halbarad had said that the Dunedain were of an old race, but surely they couldn't be so old that they were of the fallen kingdoms of Eriador. Those kingdoms were nothing but myths, stories told by wandering minstrels for a bit of coin. _The child of a king. _Gaerwn glanced at the babe at her shoulder. If this child was the child of a king, then that would mean that Aragorn was...

"Gaerwn?" Gaerwn's heart shot into her mouth at the sound of Aragorn's voice. She raised her head, but could not meet the silver eyes she sensed watching her. "Gaerwn."

"Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

Gaerwn didn't answer, Halbarad's words still ringing in her ears. _The child of a king._ His clothes were worn, muddy, and mended. His hands were leathered, his face chapped by the winter's wind, and long unkempt hair framed his stern features. He wore no crown, no velvet robes, and no jewellery except for a simple silver ring with two green stones. He couldn't truly be, he wasn't really a king, was he? But Halbarad had spoken with such certainty and no one had argued with him except for Aragorn.

"I-is what Halbarad said, a-are you really, I mean, who are you," Gaerwn finally managed, fighting for mastery over her tongue.

For a long time Aragorn didn't answer, he looked past her, his eyes reflecting the searing flames at her back.

"I am many things," he said and Gaerwn frowned at his ambiguity. "But tonight is not the time for answering such questions. The hour is late and the road is long before us."

"How can I trust you, if you won't even answer a simple question," Gaerwn challenged. "How do I follow you into the wilds if I can't even be sure of who or what you are?"

"The choice to follow is yours, as it ever was. You are free to come and go as you will. You are no prisoner," Aragorn answered, an edge of steel in his reply.

The babe against her shoulder stirred, shifting beneath her hand. Gaerwn turned, pressing her lips against the downy head, her hand moving in soothing circles over the infant's back.

"And what of her," Gaerwn asked more quietly, "what of your daughter, of Aralynn?"

"I leave that to the Valar."

"The Valar?"

Aragorn chuckled.

"I forgot that men have not the faith of elves. Among the elves the Valar are the beings that watch over this world at the behest of the One, serving as intercessors between mortal and immortal."

Aragorn spoke as if he knew the elves, more than that, as if he was one of them. She supposed it shouldn't seem strange to her, given that his wife was an elf, and his child. Gaerwn drew the babe in her arms closer. No matter how illogical it seemed, all she could think was that this child needed her. The dangers of the wild, the Dunedain and their secrets, the uncertainty of her journey all seemed second to the child. And for all it was foolish, she _wanted_ to believe what Halbarad had said. She wanted to believe that the kings of old still lived. She wanted to believe that there were still people fighting to protect innocence and freedom. She wanted to _be_ one of those people.

"I'll go," she blurted, blushing at Aragorn's confused expression. "I'll go with the Dunedain, wherever it is that you're going."

"Are you certain? You need not give your answer tonight. Our road is not an easy one," Aragorn cautioned.

"But it is my road," Gaerwn assured him, gaining confidence in saying it aloud. "I guess I'll just have to rely on these Valar to watch over me."

Aragorn laughed quietly.

"Lillianeth was right." Gaerwn stiffened. It was the first time she'd heard Aragorn use his wife's name since her death and she feared what grief it might bring. Yet, his smile remained as he spoke. "You have a true heart and a courageous spirit, the blood of an elder race is in you."

"H-how did she...?"

"Lillianeth is...was able to see into the hearts and minds of others, a rare gift in this age, even among the elves."

Gaerwn could think of no reply to such a statement. To say she was overwhelmed was not saying enough. In a day her quiet life as a widowed mid-wife had been overturned and the world she found herself in – a world of vows, of kings, and of elves – was baffling. Aragorn said nothing more, but his eyes glistened with fresh sorrow as he traced the curve of his daughter's cheek. Knowing the ache and emptiness he felt, the raw hurt of having half of yourself torn from your life, Gaerwn wished she could give him some comfort. Yet, knowing his grief so well, she knew words and gestures could bring him no solace.

"If you've no further need of me, my lord, I think it's time this little one was put to bed," she prompted, certain that if she said nothing Aragorn would stand and watch his daughter all night. "Where am I to stay?"

"You'll take my room. I'll stay with Aram," Aragorn clarified quickly, as if sensing her impending protest. "Two of my men will stand guard outside your door. If you've need of anything, send them for me." Gaerwn felt a sliver of discomfort at the thought of being under guard, even though she knew it was for Aralynn's protection. "They are not to hold you there against your will," he assured her, a smile in his voice and Gaerwn cursed the man's perceptiveness. "You are free to come and go as you like, although I'd ask you not to leave the inn, for your own safety. There are darker things in the world than shadows and thieves, even here."

"Tha's the truth to be sure, milord," chimed Horace as he joined them, an empty crate in hand. "I've seen such creatures here as would freeze your blood, I 'ave. Tis no place fer wandering."

"Indeed," agreed Aragorn tightly and Gaerwn could see his wariness of the noisy man. "I'd best go check on our friend. You'll find what you're looking for upstairs."

Gaerwn blinked, confused until Aragorn's eyes flicked to their amiable attendant. She nodded quickly.

"Er, thank you, Strider," she replied, pleased she'd remembered the name used among his men. Aragorn nodded, drawing his hood up over his head as he made for the door and Gaerwn for the stairs. She paused partway up at the clank of the latch being freed. "Strider." The man turned, door in hand. "Good night."

His face was hidden in the depths of his hood, but she caught a slight nod before he slipped out into the cold of the night. Gaerwn was unsure how one prayed to the Valar, but she made her best attempt as she climbed the rest of the stairs and shut herself in Aragorn's room, wishing with all her heart that the morning would find all of them safe.

* * *

"Hrrrrargh!"

Halbarad's clouded breath came in heaving rushes. The vibrations of his fist connecting with the stable's centre truss for the tenth time were still pulsing in his chest as he leaned against it, exhausted. His shoulders ached and blood ran between his fingers from his scraped knuckles as he pressed his forehead to the cool wood. Why would Aragorn not see reason? The man knew the perils of the life they lived. Yet, he seemed to think his child impervious to them. Elves might lead enchanted lives, but Halbarad knew that even the grace of the First Born had its limits. An elf was as easily run through with a sword as a man.

Closing his eyes, Halbarad breathed deep, hoping that the frigid air might squelch his blazing temper. It was not to be. Instead, images of a bloodied child with dark hair and delicate elven features flashed beneath his eyelids. Her eyes were silver like her father's and her voice was achingly sweet as she whimpered, calling for Aragorn. Halbarad stiffened willing the image to disappear, only to have it become clearer. The child lay upon torn sod, cast among splintered tents that burned as hulking shadows darted through the smoke, their rasping voices all too clear. And there, not three feet above where her head rested lay her father, his hand stretched toward her as he watched with foggy, sightless eyes.

Halbarad shook his head violently and thrust himself away from the post. He staggered, put off balance by the sudden movement and swore as his shin struck the corner of a bench piled with empty buckets and an unmended saddle. With a mighty roar he bent and heaved the bench with all his strength. The buckets scattered with a pattering of dull thuds onto the dirt floor and the saddle dropped back against his shins as the bench soared with the trueness of a spear, striking the crossed planks of one of the stalls with a mighty crack. The stall's occupant, a towering chestnut stallion, whinnied shrilly and reared, snorting indignantly as it landed, tossing its head in Halbarad's direction. Head bowed, Halbarad chuckled at the proud beast, the last of his strength spent and his anger with it.

"I don't suppose my distemper should deprive you of a night's rest, eh Beroth?" The stallion bobbed its head with an irritated snort that Halbarad took as a sign of agreement. "The worst of it, your master's right. Even if we could make it to the Ford we couldn't cross it until spring. Like it or not, he'll have his way until then." Halbarad held out his hand for the skittish stallion to sniff, unsurprised that the beast pulled back when he tried to scratch his ears. Beroth was Aragorn's horse and the man's elvish charm was all that could tame him. "You still can't trust me, hm?"

The stallion dipped its head, ignoring Halbarad in favour of a tuft of hay. Taking no offense Halbarad bent and righted the bench that still stood angled against Beroth's stall. As he reached for one of the buckets Beroth's head shot up, ears twitching forward and back as he sniffed the air. Halbarad might not be able to lay a hand on the beast, but he'd ridden with Aragorn long enough to recognize that someone was coming, someone Beroth didn't recognize. Abandoning the bucket Halbarad stood, the folds of his cloak enveloping his hand as he bared the first few inches of his blade. Beroth's breath was hot on his neck and Halbarad turned, levelling the horse with a glare when the stallion nipped at his collar.

The stable door scraped open and Halbarad ignored the uneasy beast at his back in favour of the shadowed figure that led a sturdy sable gelding through the wide doors. The figure hesitated in the doorway, pushing back his hood and pulling his cloak away from his face. Halbarad's lips twitched upward and he slid his sword back into its place at his hip. The quick chafe of steel against leather made the man jump, whirling so that he faced Halbarad, his expression one of uneasy relief at the sight of him.

"I half expected to see you before the morning, lad."

The man frowned.

"My name is Dirk, Ranger, and I've enough years to my name that I'm no more a lad than you."

Halbarad raised a brow.

"And how many years would that be?"

"Thirty-five."

Halbarad offered the man a thin smile as he returned to collecting the buckets at his feet.

"You'll need to own more years than that before you're more than a lad to my eyes," Halbarad told the man. Gathering the buckets under one arm and the bench under the other he crossed the stable, watching as Dirk's eyes followed him. "And what exactly is it you want with the Rangers, Breelander?"

"If you were expecting me, I'd think you'd know."

Halbarad's smile broadened fleetingly as he placed the bench back against the centre post. The man had spine. Good. He was going to need it. Halbarad took his time stacking the buckets and laying the fallen saddle back on the bench before giving his answer.

"If I were to guess, I'd have to say you're here for Gaerwn. And since you haven't managed to convince her to stay with you in Bree, I'd wager you're hoping to come with her." Dirk blinked, clearly startled by Halbarad's acuity. "I've more years to my name than I look and what's more, I'm not blind. If Gaerwn doesn't see the way you watch over her for what it is, it's because she doesn't want to."

"She buried her children no more than a year ago and her husband with them. She mourns them still."

Halbarad sighed, grieved for the young mid-wife that was now under his charge, suddenly feeling the weight of every one of his long years.

"The road before her is not an easy one," he offered, "but I'd guess you've already considered that." Dirk nodded. "As you wish then, but the choice is not mine to make."

Dirk frowned, puzzled, and at heart afraid that the Ranger would leave the choice to Gaerwn.

"Whose choice is it then? Are you not the leader of these men?"

"He is not."

The words were softly spoken but could not have startled Dirk more had they been the roar of a dragon. He turned heart in throat and cursed the rangers for moving without sound. The man at his back was shorter than Halbarad by only a small measure. He was smaller in frame, but greater in presence and Dirk resisted the unexpected urge to incline his head respectfully as the man drew nearer.

"I am Aragorn, Chieftain of the Dunedain, in these lands called Strider and leader of these men. What is it you seek from the Dunedain?"

Dirk felt equal parts uncomfortable and protected under the scrutiny of Aragorn's silver eyes. He was threatening and gentle, foul and fair. Dirk couldn't decide what to make of him. He looked too young to be a lord, his face barely lined, his dark beard and hair untouched by grey. Yet, at the same time there was an agedness, an ancientness, about him that was impossible to ignore. Dirk was only certain of one thing. He had never met such a man before.

"Speak freely, we will do you no harm," Aragorn assured him, interpreting Dirk's long silence for the discomfort that it was. "It seems you are known to Halbarad. From whence do you come?"

"I've come from Bree, milord. I am a friend to the woman you've brought from there and I've come to ask to go with your company when you leave."

"But you know not where we're going, nor when or if we'll return. Does that not bother you?"

"Not as much as letting Gaerwn leave without me."

Aragorn's expression changed slightly and Dirk realized the man was smiling at him.

"Do you not trust the Dunedain to keep her safe?"

"It's not that," Dirk protested eagerly, afraid he'd offended the man. "It's just that I'd feel better if I could see for myself that she's all right."

"Our resources are few and our numbers fewer still. For all I might wish it, we cannot take people into our camp to feed and clothe if they've nothing to offer us in return."

"I'm a blacksmith, the finest in all of Bree, I'm told," Dirk answered, gesturing toward the tools protruding from his saddlebags. "I would offer my services to you and your men of no charge."

"What of your skill with a blade?"

"It is my trade to know a blade. To know a blade one must wield it. I've skill enough and I'm a quick study."

"I think you'll have a job to discourage him, Strider," Halbarad offered, speaking for the first time since Aragorn's appearance. "It seems he's stubborn and perhaps quick-tempered. He's not like to realize his mistake until it's too late."

Halbarad's voice held a hint of remorse and as Dirk watched something passed between the two men that made Dirk think they were no longer speaking of him, or at the very least, not him alone.

"So it would seem, Halbarad, so it would seem." Aragorn's smile returned, his silver eyes softening as he looked past Dirk to Halbarad. "Yet, at times such determination is an admirable quality, and one I value dearly in those who serve me."

Dirk neck swivelled back and forth as he tried in vain to gain some understanding of the exchange between the two Rangers. After a full moment of silence had passed Dirk lost patience.

"Milord, what is your answer then?"

Behind him Halbarad chuckled.

"He's sayin' you can come with us, lad. Although you'll have to sleep here for the night with the watchmen as there are no more rooms in the inn."

Dirk wasn't thrilled at the prospect of sleeping among the cows, but his elation at being allowed to go with Gaerwn made it seem a small thing. After all, the Dunedain were nomads. He'd soon be sleeping in tents with nothing but a pelt between him and the frozen ground. That was not a pleasant thought and he felt a twinge of regret thinking of the straw tick that would go unused in his home back in Bree.

"Come, Halbarad, let us leave our friend to get settled. That hand of yours needs tending."

The larger man acceded, mumbling peevishly as he followed Aragorn toward the doors. Dirk's voice stopped them both.

"My lord?" The two men looked at him quizzically. "We still have one problem."

Aragorn raised a brow.

"And what would that be?"

* * *

"Gaerwn! I – ouch – would you stop – ouch – hitting me and let me speak?"

Dirk raised his forearm to shield himself from the small woman's blows.

"I think you've said more than enough to Strider as it is! What exactly is it that makes you think I need you trailing along at my heels? I told you I'd be fine! And what about my sister? I don't suppose you thought about seeing to her?"

Dirk grabbed Gaern's hands to stop the blows, towering over her, seething.

"I told you Gaerwn, my apprentice Ciril is looking after her. I'm not nearly as fallible as you seem to think me!"

"Oh no?"

"Is it such a crime to want to see you safe?"

The Dunedain were silent as they ate, their eyes following the argument that raged between Gaerwn and Dirk as the pair stalked back and forth across the dim common room. Some – particularly Brom, who didn't enjoy seeing five o'clock in the morning to begin with – cast cutting glares at the two over their steaming bowls. Others were like Aragorn and were simply amused as their argument dissolved into nonsensical protestations and insults.

Against his chest little Aralynn slept soundly, her tiny fingers wrapped around his right pointer finger. Having been fed by Gaerwn half an hour ago it seemed nothing could disturb her and Aragorn found that so long as she was content, so was he.

"Do you think they'll live to see the Angle in the spring?"

Aragorn chuckled as Halbarad came to stand at his side.

"I'd wager so. If nothing else they shall make our winter stay in the southern plains interesting."

Halbarad grunted, fingering the bandage Aragorn had insisted he wear on his hand the night before.

"That's what worries me. We're never wanting for interesting with you around. I'm not sure if the Dunedain can survive any more interesting."

Aragorn smiled and elbowed the elder man in the ribs gently.

"What would you do with yourself without me, Halbarad?"

"Sleep a fair sight better, I can tell you that much," Halbarad grumbled as he strode toward the tables. "All right men, we leave in twenty minutes! Be gathered and mounted. Anything you leave behind will be your own loss and I swear Telor if you lose your dagger one more time I'll give you a bread knife to replace it."

Aragorn smiled at Halbarad's growling. Somehow the elder man's rancour was comforting as he looked down at the babe in his arms.

"It's time to go home, little one."

To Be Continued...

A/N

FINALLY! I'm SO excited to be posting for this story! My health has not improved at all but in the last six months or so I've begun learning ways to work around it a little better. This is good news for you in that it should mean more regular updates...although it's hard to be less regular than the period between this update and my last one. I haven't yet sent this to my Beta but I was so excited to have it finished that I just HAD to post it.

I hope that those of you who started this story last year haven't forsaken me and I would LOVE LOVE LOVE to hear from you as well as anyone who may be finding this story for the first time! It's been so long since I've had feedback on this story and this chapter is REALLY long so I'd appreciate any and all thoughts, comments, critiques, declarations, or well wishes!

I don't know about you...but I'm really starting to fall in love with all of these secondary characters that I've created. Especially Gaerwn and Telor :P

In the next chapter we'll see Aragorn, Aralynn and their companions reach the Dunedain encampment in the south and with them will come the tidings of Aralynn's birth...and Lillianeth's death.

Hope to hear from you all!


	4. Chapter 3: The Child of Forgotten Kings

Aragorn loves and marries another before Arwen, an elleth named Lillianeth, daughter of the last Noldorian king, Gil-gilad. However, their life together is cut short when Lillianeth dies during the birth of their child, a daughter named Aralynn. Short years later the Dunedain are attacked and Aragorn is separated from his child. Grief-stricken, Aragorn sets out to find his daughter, she who is Born of Hope. AU/OC.

*This story is the beginning of an arc revolving around Aragorn and his daughter that will show how her existence will alter the fate of Middle-earth, not to mention how she will change her father. Later instalments will follow the events of Tolkien's trilogy in an alternate universe sort of way, of course. :P Hope you'll stay along for the ride! ~Sierra*

Disclaimer: I do not nor have I ever owned Tolkien's worlds, works, or characters. I'm just playing in his sand box. Props to the master.

**Chapter Three: The Child of Forgotten Kings and Queens**

The silence that had taken hold of Aragorn's small company as dusk fell on the sixth day was growing loud in his ears. Gaerwn's refusal to speak with Dirk since their departure from Archet had made their journey quieter than Aragorn had anticipated, but this silence was different. His companions were not silent because they desired to say nothing. They were silent because they could not speak.

Lillianeth's absence now that they were within sight of the Dunedain encampment at Lond Daer was as oppressive as her presence had been calming. Even the sluggish roar of the Greyflood that had been reassuring when they'd first heard it three days ago was now intrusive and irreverent, as was the frenzied crunch of hooves carving into the frosted turf.

"My Lord Aragorn!"

Aragorn frowned, unfolding his long frame where he crouched in front of the large fire at the centre of the camp they'd set the night before. Telor barrelled through his fellows, ignoring their sharp protests as he yanked hard on the reigns of the grey gelding that bore him. The animal reared, eyes rolling in fury. Telor struggled to keep his seat and failing, plunged gracelessly to the ground at his lord's feet. But he was not to be deterred. Cradling his left shoulder, Telor scrambled clumsily to his feet, his breathing laboured as he bowed quickly to Aragorn.

"My Lord Aragorn, riders, they come from the northwest, more than two score. They bear a fierce a countenance and even fiercer arms. They cannot be more than a league behind me." Telor drew a large gulp of breath, his eyes fixed on Aragorn. "What will we do, my lord?"

"They bear no standard?"

Telor shook his head.

"No, my lord."

"It is as you feared then, Aragorn," Halbarad interjected. "It is Damarion."

Aragorn nodded grimly and Telor frowned.

"You knew they were coming, my lord? How?"

Aragorn's smile held no warmth as he regarded the young ranger in front of him.

"Perhaps young one, if you were as concerned with our surrounds as with your next meal, you might have noticed their scout trailing us since we crossed the Sarn Ford." Telor's face flushed at his lord's admonishment. He cast his eyes to the frozen turf beneath his feet and shifted his weight uncomfortably from his left foot to his right. "Be not discouraged, Telor, for none of your fellows noticed him either."

No man met his lord's gaze as Aragorn surveyed them searchingly. Aragorn and Halbarad – who had also noticed their escort – had spoken long into the night regarding the inattention of his men. The Shadow in the east was growing, a much greater threat than a disgruntled raider and his cohorts. The Dunedain were seasoned fighters, but they must also be taught that not all threats come openly, bearing swords and hard feelings like Damarion. The emissaries of the Shadow in particular were known for deceit, casting a fair visage over a rotting heart.

For years the Wise had tried to deny the return of darkness to Arda, to deny that their efforts at the end of the Second Age had been for naught, but such denials could be made no longer. His men must be made to understand, to understand the evil that would undoubtedly stretch unchecked across all of Middle-earth if none made to hinder it. Orcs, wargs, and fouler beasts were moving abroad with purpose, no longer aimless. They answered to few and none to whom they answered were any friend of the Dunedain. The time for complacent hiding had passed. The Dunedain must now rise, must become watchers, hunters, and protectors of the free peoples of Middle-earth or fall with them into ruin.

The ground trembled beneath his feet and Aragorn sighed, aware that his musings were of little consequence in this instance. Damarion and his fellows would bend knee to no man, not even the Dark Lord, no matter what was offered. They were the last vestiges of a still proud house that once likely served one of the latter kingdoms of Arnor and they took no aid from any man. Now however, their house lay in ruins and while they would accept no offerings, they would take whatever they desired without leave.

It was due to this habit of taking what was not his to claim that Damarion and Aragorn first crossed paths nearly ten years ago. Only a short time after Aragorn and Lillianeth had returned to the northern plains from Gondor the residents of Bree had sent a plea to Dunedain to help save their harvest from raiders. The Dunedain had come to their aid, warning the raiders that to continue such measures would be folly. Damarion was their leader – a rash and ill-mannered man. He had left at the Dunedain's warning only to return weeks later with more men than before.

The Dunedain were there to meet him and laid waste to his raiders, killing more than half. Among the dead was Damarion's son who died at Aragorn's hand. Damarion seeing his son's death, lunged at Aragorn, but was no match for him. Seeing the man's grief Aragorn spared his life and Damarion's men were visibly relieved to take their leave of Bree. Yet it was not to be the end.

Damarion had taken nearly every man of age to face the Dunedain in Bree, believing superior numbers would grant him victory. In his absence his wife, his two youngest sons, his daughters, and what remained of his kindred were slain by a party of orcs. Their village was razed, no more than filth and ashes by the time the raiders returned. Damarion blamed Aragorn for their deaths.

Thus, four years after burying his family Damarion rode south again, determined to lay waste to the Angle. At the borders he found Lillianeth collecting herbs, unguarded and to his mind defenceless. Having learned of her ties to Aragorn during their last skirmish in Bree, Damarion attacked her while the rest of his men launched makeshift prows and made for the Dunedain settlement. Lillianeth spared his life and brought him to Aragorn as a prisoner, twisting the dagger Aragorn's first victory had driven into the man's pride.

Aragorn sought to reconcile offering Damarion and his men sanctuary with the Dunedain when he learned of the fate of their kin. Damarion refused out of spite, but many of Damarion's men were wiser. Their families had been slaughtered for Damarion's recklessness and whatever loyalty their bloodlines had provided was not strong enough to bind them to him. Livid, Damarion had spit in their faces and fled, the few men that remained to him trailing pitifully at his heels.

Since then word of Damarion and his raiders had often reached Aragorn's ears, but the man had been careful not to venture so far as to be within striking distance of the Dunedain. Until now.

Aragorn wondered at the change as the riders crested a hill to the east. Telor had been right. Damarion's men bristled with arms of all nature, but Aragorn noticed – as Telor had not – the hollowness of their cheeks and the sallow tint of their skin. Their beards were short and patchy, their gaunt frames so wasted Aragorn swore he could hear their bones rattle as they fixed him with dead eyes. Only Damarion showed any verve, riding well ahead of his men, an impatient rictus cutting across his worn features.

Aragorn could see the instant Damarion spied him amidst the grouping of Dunedain. The man's gaping smile widened to almost mad measures, his eyes gleaming as he drove his heels into the heaving sides of his mount with relish.

"Listen to me and hear me well," Aragorn instructed sternly, knowing his men alone would hear his voice beneath the charge of the raiders. "I am no longer your concern. Aralynn's safety is paramount and you must protect her, even if it means you must flee. Do not let your pride cost your lady her life."

The Dunedain said nothing, but mounted as Halbarad shepherded Gaerwn into Aragorn's tent where Aralynn lay nestled among his pelts. Aragorn did not need their assurances. The sound of steel being bared at his back was comfort enough.

Still, Aragorn felt an uncharacteristic twinge of fear as his fingers enclosed around the soft leather that bound the hilt of his blade. The weapon felt heavy, unbalanced in his hand, and for an instant he faltered, the haft sliding across his clammy palm. He caught it just short of the ground, willing his fingers to lock and his hand to steady as his foe drew nearer.

"Hail to the mighty Dunedain," crowed Damarion, his voice as frayed as his tatty breeches as he drew his mount up a hand's breadth from Aragorn. The Dunedain gave no reply. Damarion howled with laughter. "What? No warm welcome? No inquiries as to my health? For shame! Whither fled the fabled hospitalities of the rangers? Hm?"

"Welcome we might give to you," Aragorn said quietly, "Were you not armed to ride through all the hells of Mordor."

"Ah, the world has become a dangerous place, for rangers and raiders alike," declared Damarion, swinging down from his mount with ungainly ease. "I should think you as like to know that as the next man, Strider."

Aragorn said nothing, mindful of Damarion's riders as they drew up behind their master, circling the Dunedain's makeshift encampment, outnumbering the rangers four to one. Aragorn had purposely kept his numbers small on the road to Bree. Fewer riders drew less attention and could move more quickly. He had not looked for resistance in either direction. More often than not the winter plains of Eriador were as barren as the uppermost peaks of Caradhras. Now he felt the fool and found himself wishing mightily for the men and women he'd left behind.

Yet, what bothered Aragorn most was the change in Damarion. The man had made all efforts to avoid him for seven years. Now he was fearless, openly confronting Aragorn within sighting distance of the Dunedain settlement at Lond Daer. His men were well armed, but so undernourished Aragorn was certain a good puff of breath would send them reeling. True Damarion had caught Aragorn off guard and his numbers had been bolstered by a score of grotty scoundrels, but they were still dwarfed by the legion of Dunedain at Aragorn's command. Surely Damarion was not so foolish as to think himself beyond reprisal?

Something was not right.

For all he might appear it, Damarion was not mad.

"What is it you seek here, Damarion? We've no provisions save a single side of salted venison and a braid of onions. If you want supplies you would have done better to wait until we were in Lond Daer, which you well know."

"Your doubt wounds me," Damarion moaned resonantly, fingers splayed across his heart. "That you would think I might so abuse our friendship." Aragorn ground his teeth at the word friendship, but let the man continue without pause. "My eyes in Bree sent word little more than a week ago of your joyous arrival and naught would suffice but that I should come to you myself to convey my delight. Come now, where's your elf-maid hidden him? I would see your son's face before I turn northward once more."

"Would that you were able Damarion," Aragorn consoled, permitting his carefully stored grief to spill forth onto his cheeks as he met the man's wild eyes. "Yet my wife and child were lost. Lillianeth died as our child was born and in her absence the babe lasted but a day. I returned from laying my wife to rest only to do the same for my child."

"A grievous hurt that," Damarion offered sagely, his morose expression betrayed only by the glint of malice in his eyes. "There is no greater joy than fatherhood, nor a greater harm than having it torn from one's grasp, as I well know." Damarion paused, his blue eyes flashing warningly as the corners of his mouth twitched upward into a barely restrained smile. "Yet, mayhap your gods found it just that you should suffer so Ranger, in payment for the sons and wives butchered at your hands."

"Hold your tongue you filth-ridden, thrice-damned cur or I'll rid you—

"Brom!" Aragorn's swift admonishment cut the air like the crack of whip, stilling both the tongue and the steps of the younger ranger as he advanced on Damarion with all the fury of a dragon loosed from its horde. "I would have you speak to no man in such a manner on my behalf."

Brom held his place and his tongue, but Aragorn could see the man's rage roiling beneath his barely regained composure. Damarion cackled.

"Are all of your men such vigilant and vociferous defenders of their lord," he taunted. "Or perhaps it's more that you can't manage it yourself now that your elvish wench has passed."

The stunned expression on Damarion's face as Aragorn's hand fisted around the man's neck, forcibly removing his feet from the ground was nearly worth the armoury that was quickly levelled at him. Damarion's strangled protests were uncomfortably soothing as his feet dangled nearly a foot off the ground, his fingers digging into Aragorn's wrist in attempt to loosen the ranger's chokehold. Ignoring the circle of sharpened steel Aragorn glared balefully up at Damarion, his fingers tightening around the man's throat. It was then he saw it. A flash of panic, of fear, in Damarion's eyes that had been what Aragorn had been waiting for.

"You would do well to mind your temper and your manners Damarion, particularly where my wife and child are concerned. You will find I am most demonstrative in exacting apologies." Aragorn's words were slow, deep, and the sea of steel surrounding him rippled anxiously as Damarion's red face darkened to the shade of a plum. "I am not as easily cowed as the farmers from whom you've been stealing."

Damarion's sluggish movements were becoming desperate, the fear in his wide eyes shifting to unabashed terror as it became clear to both Aragorn and Damarion that although Damarion's men would play the part of defenders, they were too frightened by Aragorn's unexpected assault to retaliate. Tears seeped from the corners of Damarion's eyes and Aragorn felt his heart wrench in reply. He lacked the spiteful temperament needed to deal with the likes of Damarion. He had no desire to be feared, but he had spent enough years among men to understand that fear was the only weapon he had against men like Damarion who scorned reason and compromise.

"Lower your weapons and I will let loose your master."

"We're not fools ranger," spat a man wielding a rusted lance, "tha' we would just cas' our arms at yer feet."

"Nor did I take you for such. I asked you to lower your arms, not abandon them," Aragorn replied tersely, frustration lacing his words like a mild poison. "I simply have no desire to be run through if one of your companions should happen to sneeze." No one moved, but Aragorn's eyes flicked pointedly to Damarion as the man's arms fell slack at his sides. "Your master would welcome swift compliance were he conscious, I'm sure."

A sword, a spear, two daggers, and a bow all dipped from his line of sight and the coils of tension between his shoulders nearly snapped as Aragorn slowly lowered Damarion to the sod. The raiders watched their leader anxiously as he lay unmoving. Aragorn surveyed the man impassively, gaining the ire of more than one of the raiders. Yet, Aragorn knew something the raiders did not. Damarion had not fallen unconscious because of lack of air, but because Aragorn had managed to squeeze one of the pressure points in the man's shoulder, allowing Aragorn to loosen his hold on Damarion's neck so he could breathe.

"Come, Damarion," Aragorn beckoned quietly, prodding the prone man with the toe of his boot. "You worry your men with your indolence."

Damarion jerked reflexively as Aragorn dug his boot deeper under the man's ribs. A sharp expletive rent the still air and Aragorn was certain it was cast in his direction as Damarion fought to open his eyes.

"Damn you, Ranger," Damarion rasped, levering himself up on one elbow while his free hand massaged his throat. "It seems you're much freer in doling out penalties without your phlegmatic seneschal Halbarad to stay your hand."

Damarion's pained observation dissolved into a coughing fit as he turned awkwardly onto his knees, trying valiantly to gain his feet. Aragorn watched, concerned with the repercussions of his actions. He'd needed time, time to think, and time to find a way out of this confrontation with his daughter still safely hidden in the nest of warm pelts behind him. He wasn't altogether certain he'd succeeded when Damarion managed to stand, his umbrage apparently no less than before he'd surrendered to the darkness of his own mind. He was quick to take his sword in hand once more, glaring darkly at Aragorn as he spun the blade idly.

His face a mask of equanimity, Aragorn's mind whirled. Damarion's men seemed to rally at the sight of their risen master, their weapons held more firmly in hand as they drew closer to Aragorn and his men. Desperate, Aragorn did the only thing that had a chance of helping. He prayed. Not silently, but aloud like the elves. He prayed as if he believed Elbereth herself to be standing before him, as if she were only waiting for him to ask before sending the heavens charging down to aid him.

"_A Elbereth Gilthoniel, I unworthy beseech you, send your aid_." Damarion shied away as Sindarin fell with ease from Aragorn's lips while the raiders whispered of witchcraft. Aragorn ignored them, his eyes never leaving Damarion's bewildered features as his soul sought the light of the lady protector of the elven realms. "_Please, hear my voice. Hear my plea. By the light of your star, keep my child safe, protect her from this danger that has come upon us and do not punish her for my own carelessness. Please. Help us, o Gilthoniel. Please._"

The ground beneath his feet shivered in reply. Or so it seemed for an instant. As his astonishment waned Aragorn realized that the sensation was coming from behind him and beneath the roar of the Greyflood his sensitive ears caught the faintest murmur of hooves. His heart soared and for the first time since Damarion's arrival, Aragorn could see his victory. He met it with a smile. It seemed if the heavens would not answer his plea, the Dunedain would. Or perhaps Elbereth preferred to use mortals when able, rather than awakening the fury of the stars. Either way Aragorn lifted his eyes skyward, bidding the lady silent thanks for her rescue.

"You've little to grin about, Strider," Damarion hissed, pressing the edge of his blade against Aragorn's bare throat. "Or perhaps you do. Depends on how soon you planned to be seeing your dearly departed wench and her kit."

Aragorn's smile remained as he laid a finger against Damarion's blade, fearing the man's wavering hand would notch his throat.

"Much as it would please me to have them awaiting me at Mandos' gates, that journey shall be long in coming, Damarion. Nor will I die at your unsteady hand."

Damarion sneered, "I for one don't share your opinion, ranger."

"Can you not feel it then?" Damarion's antagonism faltered briefly, his eyes narrowing. "The earth trembles, Damarion."

The raider's eyes widened. The undeniable truth of Aragorn's statement was evidenced in the quivering pulse of the ground beneath their feet.

"What conjuration is this, Strider?"

The sharp blast of a horn came in answer and Damarion blanched.

"Tis no magic of mine, Damarion. Your vacillations have cost you your prize and now come the Dunedain to ensure their just payment."

Teeth clenched Damarion turned on his heel, hoisting himself up into the saddle. Sword still in hand he gathered the reins, his body rigid as he regarded Aragorn, face so drawn in contempt it was unrecognizable.

"Don't mistake my leaving for acquiescence, ranger," Damarion warned. "I will take your life as recompense for all you have stolen from me, but first I will cause you pain, a pain to which you will be a slave until you can bear it no more, until you wish for death. Then I, being a compassionate man shall grant your wish."

Eyes still fixed on Aragorn Damarion rammed his heels into the ribs of his mount, turning the beast with a brutal wrench of the reins. Subdued, the raiders followed, none sparing a glance for the scores of Dunedain riders that replaced them.

"My Lord Aragorn." Aragorn did not turn. His focus was on the retreating backs of Damarion's raiders. "My Lord Aragorn, is all well?"

All was not well, of that Aragorn was certain. His wife was dead, his child threatened mere days after her birth, and somehow he knew with uncomfortable confidence that Damarion would make good his promise.

Yet, he could not say so. Instead he replied,

"Aye, all is well with us now that you are here Graeme." He turned to the man he had left in charge of the protection of Lond Daer in his absence. "How came you to be here? Surely you're not forcing your scouts on patrol before the sun? Even Halbarad is not so pitiless."

"Nay, milord, those pups are still asleep in their mother's tents. We come at the behest of Master Gandalf."

Aragorn blinked.

"Gandalf?"

"Aye," Graeme answered with a nod. "Arrived four days ago and said he had come to see the babe. Told us not to worry over your lateness that you would arrive shortly, but then last night as I was setting the watch he told me it might be wise to take the firstguard for a ride to the Greyflood just after dawn. Wouldn't say why, but if I didn't know any better I'd say he knew about your yellow friends there."

"Turned tail a might too fast to be anyone but Damarion," offered Graeme's second, a thickset man named Newlyn. "Less I miss my guess."

"Nay, Newlyn, as usual your insight serves you well."

The sturdy man nodded, his eyes following the raiders as he spoke.

"What did that useless dastard want?"

"Perhaps a tale best left for more comfortable quarters, Newlyn," Graeme prompted and Newlyn quickly acceded. "Take a handful of men and help with breaking camp. Have the others stand guard. We'll not be giving Damarion a second chance."

"Damarion won't return, not now," Aragorn observed as Newlyn followed his orders. "He will have learned his lesson, even if only for a short while."

"Aye, but such talk keeps the men on their guard and Damarion is not the only one who'd like to see your innards strewn across the snow, my lord."

Aragorn permitted himself a small smile. Graeme was a rare man. Although he observed every proper courtesy due rank, title, or station, his words were as blunt with a nobleman as with his lowliest ranker. He'd served on Gondorian supply ships for nearly forty years as a younger man and the years had not diluted his salty tongue.

Trusting Graeme to keep the men to task Aragorn sheathed his blade, acknowledging the tremors in his hands and the racing of his heart for the first time. Having roamed the world far and wide, lingering longest in the most undesirable of places, Aragorn was no stranger to fear. Yet, his fear for his daughter had taken hold of him with bodily force and he was amazed he managed to keep his knees from buckling as he hurriedly crossed the short distance to his tent and ducked inside.

Gaerwn sat tucked against the rear post, a bundle of rabbit pelts clutched against her chest so fiercely Aragorn worried her arms had seized. Tears flowed unchecked down her pallid cheeks, her sage eyes fixed unseeingly on Halbarad's back as the man sat against the tent's centre post, his broadsword laid across his knees.

"They've gone then," Halbarad queried softly. Aragorn nodded and Halbarad stood, fixing his blade in its place at his hip. "The lady seems quite shaken. I think perhaps, much as she's tried to pay her friend's presence no heed, she might take comfort in it now."

"I would agree. Send me Graeme and Telor as well, please. I need this tent down."

Although Halbarad gave no answer Aragorn didn't doubt that his orders would be followed as he knelt beside the stricken woman.

"Gaerwn," he said softly. "Gaerwn, they've gone. You're safe now. Aralynn is safe now." Aragorn stretched out his hands, attempting to extricate his daughter from the woman's grasp, but Gaerwn jerked the bundle away, a small sob passing her lips. "Gaerwn, it's Aragorn. I need to take Aralynn from you now so that you can make ready to ride for Lond Daer."

Another sob escaped, but Gaerwn was not moved.

"Gaerwn, dear one, let the babe go," commanded Dirk softly as he slipped inside the tent.

Dirk's tender charge seemed to reach the frightened midwife no better than Aragorn's appeals, but with reverent care the blacksmith proceeded to unfold the woman's arms, slipping his own under Aralynn to scoop her carefully into his broad hands. With distracted concern Dirk passed the sleeping babe to Aragorn, who wilted in relief as he cradled the familiar weight of his daughter against his chest, checking to see that all was as it should be with her. Relieved of Aralynn, Dirk set about lifting Gaerwn to her feet, drawing her against him as he led her outside, passing Graeme and Telor who stood aside as the pair exited the tent.

Graeme entered first, his expression one of uncertainty.

"My lord, who are they?"

Aragorn ignored Graeme's question, looking to Telor.

"Telor, as you can see Gaerwn was quite shaken by our encounter. Find Kaden and set him to taking down her tent and tacking her horse. Once you've done that I want you to see to it that my tent is taken down and my things gathered. Anything you find here of Gaerwn's can be given to Dirk, is that understood?"

Telor nodded and turned to leave the tent, but stopped halfway out. He looked at Aragorn over his shoulder, his gaze resting on the small bundle in his arms.

"I-is Lady Aralynn all right, my lord?"

Inwardly Aragorn's heart was touched by the boy's concern, but he knew such forthright curiosity could not be encouraged. He frowned.

"Did I not give you orders enough to occupy you, Telor? For I'm certain I can think of more for you to do upon our return to Lond Daer."

Telor's eyes widened, his cheeks a violent shade of red as he quickly ducked out of the tent shouting for Kaden. In the younger man's absence Aragorn deftly transferred Aralynn from the bulky warmth of her pelts to the cotton wrappings that would keep her on their brief ride to Lond Daer. He'd found after a week of travelling he'd become quite proficient at it.

"My lord, where is Lady Lillianeth?"

Aragorn's hands stilled of their own volition, his eyes meeting Graeme's steady slate blue gaze briefly before he continued tucking the swaddling around his sleeping child.

"She is dead," he replied softly, his voice strained.

"Not by Damarion's h-

"No," Aragorn snapped, uncertain why Graeme's question irked him, only that it did. "She was not felled by any man's blade. When Aralynn was born, Lillianeth's...we could not stop the bleeding." Graeme looked pointedly away when Aragorn tried to meet his gaze this time. "The woman, Gaerwn, was her midwife. She has come to nurse Aralynn and the man, Dirk, insisted on coming with her. They are now under our protection."

Graeme cleared his throat and nodded, answering with more force than was necessary in what Aragorn suspected was an attempt to hide the tears discreetly seeping from the corners of his eyes.

"Of course, milord."

Aragorn stood, tucking Aralynn in the crook of his arm.

"Send a rider ahead, one of those who journeyed with us northward would be best. Perhaps Brom. I want word of this to reach Lond Daer before I do." Aragorn swallowed, trying vainly to tamp down the emotion blocking his windpipe. "I would rather not recount our circumstances again, if it can be avoided."

Graeme regarded Aragorn for a moment, his hand twitching as if he felt to lay his hand on his lord's arm, but thought better of it. Aragorn was pleased. He might not have been able to keep his composure had the brash man offered him comfort. As if sensing Aragorn's need for normal comportment Graeme flashed him a canted grin.

"If you'll permit me my lord, I'll see to rounding up our resident curmudgeon and set him to his task. To be honest I was surprised to find him returned without Telor's head fitted to his lance. The boy hasn't sense enough to leave Brom alone."

Without further observance Graeme slipped out of the tent. Aragorn followed, sweeping his cloak over Aralynn as he stepped out into the warmth of the southern sun. Or at least it was warm relative to the northern plains where he'd spent the last fortnight. His eyes searched for Dirk and Gaerwn, his concern for the woman growing as his concerns for his child were allayed by his hold on her.

"Aragorn." Aragorn turned, unsurprised to find Halbarad. The elder man's rigid stance projected his usual severity, but his dark eyes were softened by concern. "Gaerwn seems to have regained herself and is helping Kaden with the last of her belongings. Yours is the last tent standing and they'll make quick work of it. With home in sight none of them wish to linger."

A sharp whiney drew Aragorn's attention. It belonged to his mount, Beroth. He knew the stallion's voice, the voices of all the horses of the Dunedain, as well as their masters.

"It would seem Beroth is rather indignant about being tended by Aram."

"He is mine. I don't see why it should surprise you," Aragorn replied with a wry smile as he watched his friend struggled with the wilful stallion.

"I didn't say it did. His ire is well known. Aram was the only one of the men as would go within ten feet of him." Aragorn watched as Aram attempted to sooth the noble beast, only succeeding in exciting it further. "Spare a father his fretting and go save my well-intentioned son before he gets himself killed, would you?"

With a triumphant shriek Beroth reared, forcing Aram onto his backside to evade the sharpness of the stallion's hooves. The Dunedain chuckled, while Aram simply shook his head good-naturedly, unperturbed by his undignified position. Aragorn brushed his cloak aside as Beroth pranced in circles around Aram, passing Aralynn to Halbarad. He took a step forward, speaking "come" softly in Sindarin. Instantly the horse came to him, bending his head willingly to Aragorn's hand.

"_You shouldn't taunt poor Aram so_," Aragorn chided Beroth in Sindarin. Beroth whickered and chafed his head against Aragorn's chest. "_See that you do stop or I'll put you to pasture with Halfed's mare and let her have her way with you. She's been eying you for months_." Beroth snorted indignantly as Aragorn ran his fingers through the stallion's silky forelock. "_Go on and mind your manners_."

Nudging Aragorn none too gently with his shoulder, Beroth turned to Aram who stood nearby with an amused expression on his face.

"Has he promised to behave himself?"

Aragorn laughed, startling himself. It felt good to laugh.

"Aye, he has."

"Good, although the haughty beast might be nice enough to do so the first time around rather than landing me on my backside." Beroth huffed, butting his head against Aram's chest roughly. Aram grunted. "Apologies, Beroth, I meant no offence. Valar, you're tetchier than father."

"Watch your tongue, lad," warned Halbarad, "Or I'll see you don't make the journey home in good health."

Aram laughed at his father's ire, leading Beroth away. Aragorn chuckled and held out his hands for Aralynn. Halbarad brushed his thumb against the babe's cheek and then surrendered her to her father's care.

"Come on, Halbarad," Aragorn called as he followed after Aram. "I'll see to your errant son and soon enough we'll all be home."

Halbarad's frown remained in place as he shook his head and followed after Aragorn, his anger less than it might have been as he was reminded of the nearness of Lond Daer. Home was within sight and Aragorn felt a weight he hadn't realized was weighing on him lift from his shoulders. It was a small portion of the burden that rested there, but it was enough to prop up his spirits as he prepared to rejoin his kin knowing the one he had most wished to share this moment with was gone.

* * *

_Harrooo!_

Gaerwn flinched with such force she nearly fell from the saddle and would have, had Dirk not been riding close enough to catch her arm and hoist her back onto her roan gelding.

"Peace, Gaerwn," he murmured, "'Twas only the horn of Lord Aragorn's captain."

Gaerwn nodded, her nerves still singing as she did her best to settle back into the saddle. She noticed belatedly that Dirk's hand was still on her elbow, but couldn't find it in her to be irritated by the gesture. Instead, she felt the trembling in her arm cease and her heart return to its customary rhythm. The call of the first horn was answered by a second and Dirk's hand tightened around her arm briefly in response.

"D-does that mean that we are nearly there," she managed, her voice sounding strained even to her own ears.

"We're there now."

Gaerwn raised her head for the first time since they'd broken camp. As on the road from Bree to Archet she was hemmed on all sides by armed riders. Aragorn rode just ahead of her with Aralynn nestled safely against his chest, while Halbarad rode at the head of the column of Dunedain that now numbered more than fifty.

Yet, there were others. A line of men on foot marked the circumference of the Dunedain encampment. Each one stood to attention as Aragorn passed, their faces hidden beneath grey hoods, their spear points flashing like glass in the light of the midday sun. A row of archers was spaced at their backs, half a dozen arrows jutting from the frozen sod at their knees, replacements for the shafts already strung in their hands. Thirty feet of barren sward stretched at their backs, marred only by a wide trail that cut through to the first dirt-coloured tents.

Gaerwn was certain she had never seen so many tents. There were hundreds of them, no one the same as far as she could see, although most were the same dreary dun colour. The tents were arranged in circles, each circle set inside of the previous one like the rings of a tree, leaving a track wide enough for two horses to pass between each ring. All of the tents were facing forward, toward the centre of the camp, except those in the outermost ring. There the tents faced not the camp, but the sentinels posted along the rim of the settlement.

"Only men without families live on the outer ring. They turn their tents outward because they are always on guard, ready to fight at a moment's notice should the watch fall. It allows the rest of the men time to get their families to safety before joining the battle." Gaerwn started, caught off guard by Aragorn's unexpected explanation as the Dunedain chieftain drew his mount back beside hers. "Our elders and the families with small children live closer to the centre. We'll place your tent there."

Gaerwn nodded.

"As you say, milord."

Aragorn chuckled and Gaerwn turned toward him sharply. She'd known the man a fortnight and had never heard him laugh. It pleased her to hear it, although she noted that his smile didn't reach his sterling eyes.

"I see that Halbarad's lessons on deportment have left their mark."

"If I am to serve the Dunedain, it is only right that I observe their customs."

"True," Aragorn agreed, his eyes leaving Gaerwn to watch as several of the men left their column, riding toward the outermost tents. "Yet, as the keeper of my child you hold a special place among the Dunedain. You must always be willing to speak your mind with me, even if you feel it is an opinion I would not like to hear."

Dirk snorted.

"Milord, once you have known this lady a sight longer, you'll come to understand that for Gaerwn withholding her opinion is a physical impossibility."

"Aragorn!"

Gaerwn swallowed the scathing rebuttal that was already on her lips at Halbarad's call, but scowled at Dirk warningly as Aragorn excused himself. Pointedly ignoring the cheeky grin that Dirk sported in reply, Gaerwn returned to her perusal of the Dunedain encampment. They were nearing the centre of the camp which was obscured by a great deal of smoke. The only thing Gaerwn could make out was a long, high shadow that seemed to run the length of the empty space at the heart of the camp.

There were more people here than there had been along the outer ring, she could see them scattered among the tents. Yet, they made barely a sound. Gaerwn found it puzzling. She had quickly learned that the Dunedain were a rather reserved people, but even those that had guarded her during her trip from Bree had not been so utterly silent. A muffled cough to her left caught her attention and she turned in her saddle, eyes searching for its source.

A woman stood not more than a dozen yards from the road, her hands fisted against her mouth as she stared blindly at the column of riders. Her eyes were rimmed with red and her cheeks shone with tears as a pair of children with her fair hair clutched at her skirts. As Gaerwn watched Halfed left the column and rode toward the woman, halting his mount a safe distance from the children before taking her in his arms as she began to sob.

Gaerwn turned, searching the faces of those within her sight. Many were marked with tears. Husbands held their wives, mothers held their children, and children clung to each other as the Dunedain mourned. It seemed strange to Gaerwn, that the death of Lillianeth would cause them such grief. The lords of Bree had changed four times in her memory, twice because of death, but she had never thought to mourn their loss, had never met any of them for that matter. They lived in their manor atop the highest hill, surrounded by great stone walls and there they stayed. She'd never laid eyes on one of them. To see the Dunedain so moved by Lady Lillianeth's death was unsettling.

She noted absently that her mount had stopped and slid from the saddle without waiting for Dirk to help her. The man glowered and Gaerwn arched a brow smugly as he moved to stand beside her. Ahead of them Aram, Halbarad, and Aragorn had also stopped. Halbarad and his son were speaking with a young woman with fiery hair that framed her narrow face before cascading down her back in soft ringlets. She wasn't crying, but Gaerwn caught the gleam of tears in her brown eyes as Halbarad laid his arm over her shoulders and drew her gently to his side.

Beyond them Aragorn stood, listening to an older woman with dark chestnut hair and kind blue eyes. The woman's hair was streaked with silver, but rather than take away from her beauty it seemed to enhance it, bringing out the flecks of silver in her red-rimmed eyes as she rubbed Aragorn's shoulder tenderly, nodding as he spoke. Smiling sadly the woman looked up at him, speaking words Gaerwn was too far to hear before reaching her arms up to Aragorn's neck and drawing him into a gentle embrace. Rather than balk as Gaerwn had expected, the young chieftain leaned into the woman's touch, bending so that she could hold him closer as the woman pressed her lips against his temple and then let him go.

"Gaerwn," said Halbarad as he stepped into her line of sight. "This is my daughter, Mira." The redhead she'd seen speaking with Aram and Halbarad earlier stepped forward, her expression reserved as she nodded to Gaerwn wordlessly. "I've asked her to help you get settled. Kaden and Telor are already working on setting up your tent beside Aragorn's so that you'll be close to the baby. Mira will find you a bite of something to eat as we've missed breakfast. The tent should be up by the time you're finished. Aram will see to Dirk and I myself have a bit of business to attend to before the noon meal. If you've any questions or are in need of anything see to it that you tell Mira."

"As you say, Master Halbarad."

Gaerwn bowed slightly to the towering man and then turned to the woman in front of her who nodded again, gesturing for Gaerwn to follow. Gaerwn groaned inwardly, able to see Halbarad plainly in his daughter's stern expression and withdrawn demeanour. Halbarad had been more than mildly intimidating when Gaerwn first met him and she still felt very small under his unyielding gaze, but at least he spoke to her, even if it was with singular syllables or short clipped sentences.

"We have some cornmeal left. Would that and a rasher of bacon do you until our noon meal?"

It took Gaerwn a moment to realize it had been Mira who'd spoken and when she did she found the young woman watching her with an arched brow, as if she doubted Gaerwn was capable of answering.

"Y-Yes, that would be fine," she managed, belatedly remembering her manners. "Thank you."

Mira nodded, guiding Gaerwn toward the long shape she'd seen earlier through the smoke. As they drew closer Gaerwn realized it was a tent. The fabric of one side had been pinned up to the top of the posts so that it was completely open, allowing her to see the series of long tables and benches arranged inside. Gaerwn glanced at Mira as they approached the tent and deciding to be direct with her as she'd been with Halbarad Gaerwn simply asked what she wanted to know.

"Do the Dunedain take common meals?"

Mira glanced at Gaerwn briefly and nodded.

"Yes, we share all of our resources." Gaerwn sat on the end of one of the benches nearest to a series of roughly hewn hutches housing wooden flatware as Mira took one of the plates and moved to a small iron pot that stood on a stool in the far corner. Scooping a ladle of the white mush from the pot she continued. "It ensures that no one goes hungry and no one has to ask for handouts. If food is scarce then we all suffer."

"Even Lord Aragorn?"

"Of course," Mira snapped slamming the lid of the iron pot down with a sharp clang. "He shares with us in all things, whether good or ill."

Gaerwn's cheeks burned as Mira drew a rasher of salted bacon from an urn on the ground and thrust the plate and a spoon on the table in front of her.

"Thank you."

Mira nodded, her expression tight, as she stood with the small of her back braced against the hutch looking beyond Gaerwn to the clearing behind her. Gaerwn scooped the cooling mash into her mouth gratefully, taking a bite of the bacon as she studied her guide. Mira was a great deal shorter than her father Halbarad, but her height was still impressive for a woman, her shoulders broader than Gaerwn would have expected. Her eyes were like her father's, so dark brown they were nearly black and Gaerwn wagered that they turned to ebony when the woman lost her temper, just as Halbarad's did. Luckily, Gaerwn had never had the man's ire directed at her, but she'd seen him lose his temper with Telor enough during their travel to know it was something she didn't want to experience.

She was equally certain she did not enjoy being on the receiving end of Mira's temper. The woman wore a simple dress over a pair of breeches that were tucked into her worn leather boots. A cloak of mossy green was wrapped around her shoulders and fell just below her waist where a sword rested easily. Gaerwn did not wonder whether Mira could wield it as the woman traced the edges of the hilt with her gloved fingers. She seemed too much at ease with wearing the weapon to be unable to handle it, although in spite of the fact that she knew Mira was her protector and not her enemy, the thought made Gaerwn slightly uncomfortable as she finished her meal.

Once she'd finished Mira took her dishes and dropped them into a cauldron of water, striding out of the tent without a word, clearly expecting Gaerwn to follow. She did, struggling for a moment to keep up with the woman as they crossed the clearing, skirting the many bonfires and the young boys that were adding wood to them as their mothers tied aprons around their waists talking to one another in subdued tones. None of them gave Gaerwn a second glance as she followed Mira to a tent almost directly across from the one where she'd taken her meal. It was square, dun-coloured, and overall unexceptional except for the archway outside the door that would grant her shelter from the elements as she unfastened the flap and a place to dry her cloaks in the inclement weather that winter was sure to bring even this far south.

"This will be yours," Mira explained, drawing back the small flap that would let them inside. "The one to your right belongs to Lord Aragorn. I will warn you he is rarely found there."

Gaerwn started, realizing for the first time that she hadn't actually seen Lord Aragorn since she'd watched him hug the beautiful woman with blue eyes. As Mira tied back the door to Gaerwn's tent Gaerwn looked behind her to the clearing, searching for the tall frame of the Dunedain Chieftain.

"W-where is Lord Aragorn?"

She was surprised when Mira glanced at her, a small smile on her lips.

"Be not surprised, Gaerwn, if that is a question you are often asking." Gaerwn returned Mira's smile, pleased to see the woman's smile softened her strong features. "My mother says it is because he has spent so much time among the elves, my father says it is because he feels the shadows of the darklings at his back, but whatever the reason Lord Aragorn comes and goes as a spirit, as like to be gone as not."

Gaerwn nodded, sparing a last glance over her shoulder as she helped Mira carry in the heavy pelts that had been left for her bedding, wondering once again just what she had gotten herself into.

* * *

What Gaerwn couldn't know was that less than a dozen yards from where she stood with Mira, Aragorn was asking himself the same question as he gazed listlessly at the contents of the tent he had shared with his wife. It had been a month since their departure from Lond Daer, but her presence in the small shelter was still strong enough he expected her to walk through the door behind him.

The bed was made – something Aragorn had never bothered with even during his years in Elrond's house. A brush and comb peeked at him from a basket on the corner of the small crate Lillianeth had fashioned into a nightstand. A handful of elvish tomes were tucked inside. His desktop could actually be seen beneath the sheaves of paperwork that he avoided at all costs, neatly stacked beside the rolls of leather-bound maps detailing the landscape from Eriador to Harad. Her mending was tucked beside the rocking chair Halbarad's wife had warned him had been left in their absence as a gift from Halbarad's family. The basinet Lillianeth wove last summer sat just in front of it lined with the lavender quilt she'd sewn for the child she insisted would be a girl.

She'd been right.

Aragorn swallowed hard, mindful of the fact that girl was sleeping in his arms and waited, waited for the wizard standing in his doorway to speak. He was not left to wait long.

"Time has a merciful tendency in the minds of men to dim painful memories while pleasurable memories are made clearer. It is the second of the gifts given to Men, but to my mind, perhaps a gift even more precious than death."

"A pitiable excuse for gifts, death and poor memory," Aragorn whispered bitterly, finding the gentle timbre of the wizard's voice did nothing to ease his anguish. "No wonder the elves pity us."

"And envy you as well, for while mortal memories fade with time elven memory remains as clear as the sweetest of founts, memories which they must bear for all their immortal lives whether good or ill." The wizard hummed vaguely, the scent of his pipe smoke growing stronger with his silence. "It might have been kinder to grant elves long lives and feeble minds or men short lives and bright minds, but I would guess the Valar have their reasons as we all do. Fortunately, they have seen fit not to burden me with such knowledge. Just as well. I'm sure I'd have misplaced it by now."

Aragorn closed his eyes, his amused snort a reflex in the wizened Istari's presence. It had taken him a long time to see the wisdom in Gandalf's sprawling narratives. The changes in his soft inflection were so slight they were easily missed as he seemed perpetually amused by some great secret he harboured. It did not help matters that his conversation topics changed as quickly as a dwarf's temperament. He could speak of war and jellies, pipe weed and famine, orcs and kites all in the same sentence.

Glorfindel often stated – within Gandalf's earshot of course – that those lauded as wise were as often as not merely unhinged to which the wizard ever replied, 'Who then is the greater fool, Lord Glorfindel, the fool that leads or the one that follows?'

"Well now, am I to be invited in or be left to stand in the doorway until dinner?" Aragorn opened his eyes and turned to the wizard at his back. Gandalf met his gaze, his blue eyes sparkling as he smiled around the pipe clamped between his teeth, puffing on it gently. "Nearly seventy years to your name and still I'd swear you've grown taller since the last time we met."

Aragorn shook his head, smiling as he stood aside and motioned for the wizard to enter. With a short nod Gandalf strode inside, closing the tent door behind him as he took his pipe from his mouth and removed the fraying, pointed hat from his head. The hat, like the wizard's robes, might once have held a bright and vibrant hue, but it had long since faded to a dingy grey that matched the wizard's long beard. Hence he was heralded by men as Gandalf the Grey.

"What brings you to camp of the Dunedain, Gandalf? I would have thought this time of year you'd be safely tucked behind the doors of Elrond's house or the gates of Caras Galadhon or Gondor."

The wizard frowned as he settled himself in the rocking chair, his eyes following Aragorn as the man unwound his cloak and hung it from a peg on the centre post.

"Gondor has become less hospitable as of late," he confided irritably, cupping the bowl of his pipe in his hands as he drew on the long stem. "Denethor spares me none of the kindness his father bore me and I find in the absence of you and Ecthelion, there is little left for me in Gondor, with the exception of Denethor's youngest son."

Aragorn spared the wizard a glance over his shoulder as he knelt on the pelts at the end of his bed and began unwinding the swaddling that bound his daughter.

"Faramir?" The wizard nodded. "He can't hold more than a score of years."

"Less. He is barely turned fifteen years of age. Yet while his father and older brother resent my presence, he misses his lessons in archery and swordplay to speak with me."

"Then he is little like his father," Aragorn observed, familiar with Gondor's steward, Faramir's father, from his time as Thorongil. "Denethor is by no means a warmonger, but he has never been one for diplomacy where a sword might suffice."

"A trait I fear will have dire consequences before the end."

Aragorn looked back at the wizard again and was surprised to find his expression dark. His brows were knit in a mass at the base of his furrowed brow as he stared with glazed eyes at a spare pair of boots slumped against the centre post of the tent.

"Gandalf?"

The wizard started, blinking quickly as his eyes found Aragorn.

"Hm?"

"Gandalf, why have you come," Aragorn questioned, his tone permitting no elvish evasion as the wizard met his gaze. "For all your foresight was needed, you could not have known of my child before you arrived here. None among the elves know of her and my kin have not seen you in nearly three years."

"You may find the elves frustrating, Aragorn, but you have been gifted their mastery of reason." Aragorn's frown deepened as he held the wizard's gaze. He would know the wizard's purpose if it took all the night. However, Gandalf for his part seemed unaffected by Aragorn's glare, his eyes trailing from Aragorn's face to the child he held cradled against his chest. "May I hold her?"

Aragorn blinked twice, caught off guard by the wizard's question. He nodded, shifting Aralynn so that she was cradled in his hands. With comfortable ease Gandalf leaned forward and scooped Aralynn into his open palms, smiling serenely as she squirmed in protest. He cupped one hand against the back of her tiny head and used the other to cradle her long body against his knees. Aragorn watched, fully understanding the expression of blissful wonder that transformed the wizard's aged face. Yet, he did not forget his questions.

"Gandalf."

"You were right," Gandalf offered quietly, his eyes never leaving Aralynn. "I knew nothing of your child before I arrived here. The young sentry assumed it was why I had come and I did not correct him."

"Then why are you here, mellon nin, and what end is it you fear for Gondor?"

"The same end I fear for all of Middle-earth, the victory of Sauron."

Aragorn felt the cold from the frozen sod at his feet shoot up through his boots into his chest so that every beat of his heart was painful. He had never heard the name of the Dark Lord spoken aloud.

"He was slain by Isildur."

"You and I both know better than that, Aragorn. Do not be ignorant," Gandalf rumbled impatiently. The wizard's rebuke stung, but Aragorn said nothing. "Your wife and I found that fetid demon in the shadows of Mirkwood in Dol Guldur before you were born. We saw what he has become. Do not spare any illusions that his lesser corporeal form is any less potent than the fair mask he once wore to deceive elves and men alike. He is the servant of Morgoth and wields a power I promise you cannot fathom, a power I am not sure we can withstand.

"The Elves while sympathetic to the plight they know Middle-earth is now facing are weary of this realm and of the battles that plague it. There is little left to hold them here and I fear most will leave rather than face him again. Thus it is Men who must stand and protect Middle-earth or watch as it is brought to the brink of destruction. Fools like Denethor, who sit in their towers of stone and look down upon the world as if they were gods, unaware or indifferent as the usurper tears down their kingdoms stone by stone."

"The Wise have spoken of the Shadow's coming for centuries and the fires of Mount Doom have burned for nearly fifty years without a word from him," Aragorn reminded the wizard, pointedly ignoring his own thoughts from earlier that morning regarding the increased purpose of the emissaries of darkness. "What makes you so certain that we shall face his darkness within my life or yours?"

"Your grandmother Ivorwen knew it before even the wisest of us," Gandalf murmured, brushing his thumb against the fringe of Aralynn's raven hair. "She said that you, Aragorn, would be the hope for the Dunedain, which is why," he mused, "I am confused by your presence, little one. You were not foreseen by any I have known. Just what is your place in all that is to come, hm?"

The wizard spoke to Aralynn as if he expected her to give an answer, but naturally she did not. Undeterred Gandalf continued to study the sleeping babe in his lap, mumbling in elvish and several forgotten tongues while Aragorn watched from his place on the foot of his bed. Massaging his legs to relieve the numbness in them Aragorn stood and made his way to his desk, wary of what he'd find waiting.

However, instead of the stack of unread reports he'd feared he found a note from his tactician Cyril. The young man's slender script brought a smile to Aragorn's lips as it informed him that his paper work was finished and a summary of the month's reports was waiting for him in Cyril's quarters. Relieved of at least one headache Aragorn began sifting through the other documents that had been left for him in his absence. He didn't need foresight to understand he would be spending at least two of the upcoming days here at his desk. He sighed, but choked on his own breath at the sudden boom of the wizard's voice.

"Ah, so there you are," Gandalf pronounced with a triumphant chuckle. Aragorn turned and found Aralynn staring up at the wizard with wide silver eyes. The wizard's eyes danced as he watched her wiggling avidly in his hold, all signs of his former distemper gone. "You, my dear, are going to change everything, aren't you?"

Aragorn stiffened, dread churning in his stomach. He knew better than to believe that changes in foresight were without their price, even if those changes were for the better. Moreover he feared what changes might be wrought by his daughter's existence in the wake of the Shadow's rising. She too was Isildur's heir, bound to a cursed life by her grandsire's greed, by the darkness of Isildur's Bane.

"Change everything how, Gandalf?"

Gandalf looked up at him with a contented smile and pushed off the ground with his feet, rocking the chair idly as he drew Aralynn against his chest, tucking the folds of his robes around her.

"In the greatest of ways, by the smallest of gestures, as all changes are wrought," the wizard hummed, his eyes once again fixed on the child in his arms. "She shall be hailed as the Heir of Two Kingdoms and in her shall be seen again the greatness of them both." Gandalf chuckled softly, his gnarled finger caressing Aralynn's cheek. "We should not be surprised I suppose, should we little one? It is not often that one is born of so great a hope as that which your parents have for their people."

Aragorn watched as the rhythmic movements of the wizard's rocking lulled his daughter back to sleep taking little comfort from the wizard's words. He was paralyzed, bound by an unrelenting urge to snatch Aralynn from the wizard's arms and flee, flee to the farthest of far places where she would never be found. He would accept whatever doom Eru intended for him, but he would fight to the death to protect his daughter from such a great destiny, from such an anguished fate.

"Peace, Aragorn," the wizard commanded gently, his hand clasping Aragorn's forearm with unexpected strength, "for while even the wisest parent cannot see every step of the path that lies before their child, they can ensure that child does not walk their path alone." Aragorn nodded weakly as the wizard released his arm and stood, passing Aralynn to him. Aragorn bent, pressing his lips against her brow, reassuring himself that all was well with her. "Remember Aragorn, worrying will spare your daughter nothing and will cost you a great deal. A lesson you and your brothers have well taught Lord Elrond."

Aragorn laughed, laying his free hand on the wizard's thin shoulder.

"Thank you, mellon nin, for being here."

"Of course," Gandalf assured him with a knowing smile. "Sometimes even the most skilled of wanderers becomes lost and needs to be told that they are not alone in the world." Aragorn nodded, the ache in his chest easing fractionally. "However, I fear I must depart briefly. I shall return by nightfall for her naming ceremony."

"May Elbereth guide your steps, mellon nin."

"As she ever has," Gandalf assured him with a smile as he slipped from the tent, a walking song reaching Aragorn's ears long after the wizard had disappeared from sight.

* * *

The sky upon the wizard's return to the Dunedain encampment, though dark, was clear as he passed unopposed through the Ranger's guard singing the same song as when he'd left. Gandalf smiled, pleased to hear the laughter of the Dunedain from the outer rim. Of all the races of Men in Middle-earth the Dunedain were in his opinion, the most resilient. At times their ability to choose celebration over sorrow was so great he almost believed them to be descended from hobbits rather than elves. There were of course the issues of longevity, lineage, and height difference that insisted he was quite mistaken, but Gandalf found he rarely let logic interfere with his wonderings. It was a detrimental element.

"Gandalf! It's good to see you returned," Aram greeted, raising his flagon to the wizard as Gandalf drew his mount to a halt. "Father has been rumbling nigh an hour that you would forget us for some unavoidable errand or another."

"Indeed?"

"You can hardly blame him, Aram, given Master Gandalf's penchant for distraction."

Gandalf chuckled as he slid from his mount, bidding the gentle mare to go find food and rest as he turned his gaze to the twinkling blue eyes of Halbarad's wife.

"It is good then that I have you to keep faith in me, dear Haleth."

"Not to mention the Lord Aragorn," Haleth reminded him pleasantly.

"Quite so," Gandalf permitted, holding out his arm to the Dunedan woman, which she took with a smile. "Now, Aram, if you would be so kind as to guide me to your lord I would be most grateful. I wouldn't want him to worry over my tardiness."

Aram agreed good-naturedly and with a nod toward the fires began wending his way through the many bodies that filled the centre clearing of the Dunedain encampment. Gandalf followed at a slower pace, Haleth keeping time beside him as they made their way to the far side. In spite of the brisk air a number of the tables had been moved outside the dining tent, scattered among the bonfires. Aragorn sat at one on the northernmost side of the camp, a slight smile turning his lips as he spoke to a young woman Gandalf didn't recognize.

"That is the midwife from Bree, Gaerwn. She agreed to come and care for Lady Aralynn," Haleth informed him having followed Gandalf's gaze to Aragorn's table. "The man on her left is Dirk, one of Bree's smith's. He would not let the poor woman leave the vales without him, insisted he come with her."

"As much as anyone can insist on anything where father and Lord Aragorn are concerned," Aram commented from just ahead of them. "The pair would rival a dwarf for stubbornness."

"A statement meant as a compliment I'm sure, my friend," Aragorn called in greeting, his silver eyes lit by the firelight as he turned to Aram. "Or perhaps I heard you wrong."

"Damn his elvish hearing," Aram grumbled affably. Gandalf choked to avoid laughing, catching the young chieftain's eye over his guide's shoulder as Aragorn grinned a grin much feared in Elrond's house. His smile did not go unnoticed by Aram who cast a glance over his shoulder long enough to say, "He's heard me, hasn't he."

Gandalf merely nodded as Aram cursed again, his spirit warmed by the sound of the Haleth's laughter as she left him to take her seat at Halbarad's side. Aram sat on the end of closest bench speaking to the blacksmith whose better nature was beginning to color his cheeks.

"I see you saw fit to start the festivities without me," Gandalf noted airily taking a seat on the bench directly across from Aragorn. "A wise choice."

"One cannot depend upon you to follow the schedules of ordinary creatures my friend," Aragorn explained. "Oft I've seen you arrive hours, even days past when expected."

"I've never been late for anything. I arrive –

"Precisely when I mean to," Halbarad and Aragorn chorused to the amusement of the others.

Gandalf arched a brow.

"One might think you'd heard me say that before."

"Once or twice," Aragorn conceded with a smile.

Halbarad snorted.

"If he were my ranker he'd still be hanging, bucked and gagged from one of those trees down by the Greyflood."

"Then it is well I have never felt any inclination for the military life, Halbarad."

"Indeed, Master Gandalf, indeed," the grim man conceded with what Gandalf could almost have sworn was a teasing grin. Whatever it might have been, it vanished so quickly Gandalf wondered if it had ever been as the man turned to Aragorn. "Now that the wizard has found his way home, might we begin the ceremony? The children will be off to bed before long and I know everyone of them is nearly going through themselves at the chance to see Lady Aralynn."

"Aye, we might, Halbarad," Aragorn agreed with a weary sigh, "Although I'll warn you I was quite comfortable as I was, meaning if I must rise then so must you. You gather the elders, I'll see to readying Aralynn."

Halbarad stood with a short nod and began cutting his way through the throng to the tent where Gandalf could see a number of very grey heads and beards not unlike his own. Aragorn reached for the child nestled against the midwife's bosom, collecting her with ease as he stood and moved to the end of the table. Beyond them the voices of the Dunedain grew louder, the crowd more animated Halbarad bellowed for them all to draw close for the ceremony.

Rippling and surging like waves against the shore the Dunedain moved as one toward the table where Aragorn stood. A few slipped passed them, edging their way through the crowd with unsteady steps. Three of them Gandalf knew to be more than two centuries old, but unlike the elves who changed little with the years their age was drawn plainly in the deep lines of their faces. The crowd fell silent, the snap and hiss of the fires the only sound as the Dunedain elders took their place next to Aragorn. It was a woman who spoke first.

"Tonight we gather to honour the most precious of gifts, the gift of life. For millennia our kin have celebrated the coming of any life, but tonight is special, even among special occasions." Gandalf smiled as the little woman tottered toward Aragorn, her wise eyes twinkling like fallen stars in the firelight. "Tonight we rejoice in the coming of the child of our king."

At her last word the Dunedain let loose a shout to shake the heavens and Gandalf felt the earth thrill in reply. The small woman beamed.

"Many years have we tarried here," she continued, "exiles in our own lands, but we do not grieve for we follow our king. While many toil without hope, we believe. We believe in our king and now too in his child, our future queen."

Another cheer rang out and again Gandalf felt the earth tremble in delight. He closed his eyes, revelling in the stirrings of old magic, magic rarely invoked by the men of this age. It only further convinced him of this child's importance as the woman took Aralynn from her father's arms. She unwound the swaddling as a man with nothing more than a wisp of white hair upon his wrinkled head stepped forward carrying a quill and a bottle of ink.

"Tonight we mark this babe, Aralynn daughter of Aragorn, as heir to our king and heir to all the lands that by right are his." Another woman, shorter than the first, hobbled forward, helping the first woman to hold Aralynn as if she was sitting, pulling the soft fabric of her little tunic aside to bare her left shoulder. "We pledge with our lives to guard her against evil, to follow her into battle, to love her as our own, and to serve her with honour."

The man pressed the inked quill against Aralynn's shoulder, marking with quick, sure strokes as Aralynn keened in protest. The quill would barely scratch her, but the ink would remain for all her life, marking her as the "fated one" of the Dunedain as the kings of Numenor had once been marked. When he was finished the man stepped back and bowed deeply twice, once to Aralynn and once to her father. The women turned as Aragorn stepped forward, passing Aralynn to him before bowing deeply.

Tenderly, Aragorn bundled Aralynn in the pelts he'd taken her from, humming to quiet her as the elders formed a circle around them. A space was left between two of the elders directly behind Aragorn and Gandalf rose, moving forward to fill it as the elders placed their hands on the shoulder of the person on either side of them. Gandalf followed their direction, his eyes fixed on the man that had marked Aragorn's child. After a moment of silence the man nodded and Gandalf began to sing.

His aged voice was low and raspy at first, deep like the rumblings of a mountain, but swelled as the magic grew. The words he sang were old, a prayer song gifted to the men of Numenor by the elves thousands of years earlier, their meaning known only by the elders of the Dunedain and their king.

The second time he sang the words the elders joined him. Long short, long short short, long short long short, long long. The pulse of the prayer was like the tattoo of an ancient drum, bidding blessings be gifted to the child now looking silently up at her father. It was difficult to grasp that one so small might change the world so greatly. Then again her father had already wrought changes the Wise might once have deemed impossible and his greatest task had yet to be laid before him. Perhaps, Gandalf mused as the song ended and the roar of the Dunedain's exultations shuddered across the plains, perhaps greatness in one so small is not so surprising at all when they are the child of forgotten kings and queens.

To be continued...

A/N – Hope that you enjoyed this chapter. As always, I love hearing your thoughts, opinions, criticisms, adulations etc : P I am also vain enough to simply have you say you're enjoying it. Hope to hear from you!

The next few chapters will have slight time jumps so that we can get to a point where Aralynn can be her own character...not that I don't love her as she is.

NEXT chapter will involve the Dunedain's move to the Angle and the arrival of the sons of Elrond who will be surprised by Aralynn's presence, to say the least. ;)


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